Not so Picture Perfect
by IronSparrow99
Summary: A series of snapshots into the lives of our favorite superheroes.
1. Meeting Sergeant Barnes

Avengers – and just superheroes in general – seldom get breaks.

So I was savoring my Wednesday afternoon by lounging on my bed in a pair of MIT sweatpants and a tank top with my nose in the latest tabloids about me, my dad, and the press digging up things that were farther from the truth than Hydrogen was from Lawrencium on the periodic table. Apparently I was cheating on Clint with Bruce and my dad was having 'marital spats' with Steve, of all people.

These were entertaining to read, they really were.

A familiar rustling above my head causes me to look up and wait for the appearance of the archer.

"Hey." Clint pops his head out of the vent in the center of the room. "Are you busy?"

"Not particularly, no." I sigh. "This had better not be a call to assemble and save some city somewhere, because I'm not on call."

He shakes his head. "No, nothing like that. Can you come down to the living room real quick? There's someone we want you to meet."

"Okay." I say suspiciously. "Just anyone, or…?"

He smirks. "You'll see. Can you manage to look as threatening as possible without the suit?"

"Of course. Anything else?"

"Armed to the teeth, and cover your arm."

I nod. "It's not some biased bigot like Fury was, is it?"

"No."

"Good. Threatening, armed, covering the metal arm?"

"You got it. Bye."

"See you."

I hop off my bed as he pulls back into the vents, opening my Jarvis-enabled closet. "Okay…threatening, threatening…"

I quickly lay a black tank top on my bed, and it's joined by a pair of black cargo pants. I dig out a pair of army-issue combat boots and a black leather jacket as well.

I quickly apply the layers and layers of black, tucking the pants into the tight laced boots and making sure all traces of my prosthetic arm are hidden by the jacket sleeves and gloves. My bow and quiver are strapped to my back, one gun goes on each hip, a third on my left ankle, a six-inch hunting knife in my right thigh, a mini gun on my left shoulder, and two four inch knives up my sleeves.

As a finishing touch, I slip on the wrap-around polarized glasses like Clint has.

"How do I look, J?"

" _Frightening, ma'am. My worst nightmare."_ The AI tells me, with a gentle teasing tone to his British voice.

"Aw, thank you Jarvis. Call the elevator, would you?"

" _At once."_

I give myself a slightly wolfish grin in the mirror before jogging silently towards the glass elevator.

 **A~A~A**

The air in the living room is buzzing with tension, the room itself occupying seven highly armed superheroes, a few S.H.I.E.L.D. techs, and a new guy.

New Guy has about shoulder length stringy brown hair, wary brown eyes on top of dark circles and bags, a slumped air in general, and…

Oh.

New Guy has a shiny silver metal arm with a faded red star on the shoulder.

Well then.

"So," I say flippantly as I take my place between Dad and Clint, "Who's the new kid?"

"Taylor, meet Sergeant James Barnes, also known as the Winter Soldier. Sergeant, meet Taylor Stark."

His eyes scan me up and down, taking in every blade, firearm, and arrow. I pretend not to notice as I cross my arms. "Sergeant." I acknowledge with a sharp nod.

"Miss Stark." His tone and nod are equally as sharp.

"So…Cap's best friend?" I nod towards where Steve is standing just behind him.

Barnes nods with a small smirk. "Someone had to keep the little punk out of trouble."

I allow myself a small smile as I nod and look towards my boyfriend. "I know how you feel. So what's your deal?"

He shrugs. "Just your friendly neighborhood brainwashed assassin."

I snort. "Those words should never enter the same sentence. And just and FYI, you're the third assassin here."

He looks over my shoulder at Natasha and Clint. "Tasha, Barton."

I blink. "You know them?"

He points at Tasha, "She seduced me as my partner," his finger moved to Clint, "then he tried to kill me. So yeah, in a way."

I grin and shrug. "Welcome to the team, then, I guess. Someone else will show you around, it's my day off."

I turn to go back into the elevator, but in doing so I cause my right jacket sleeve to shift and reveal a slice of silver.

"Nice arm." he whispers behind me. I sigh and turn back to him, discarding my gloves and jacket by my feet to reveal my right arm in all of its glory.

"How'd you get yours?" he asks.

"Explosion. Sliced through the shoulder with rebar. You?"

"HYDRA experiments."

Silence hangs for a moment, then…

"My arm is better than yours." he boasts.

"No way." I scoff.

"Mine has muscle definition."

"Mine has heat repellent."

"I can catch Steve's shield with no kickback."

"And I can catch a speeding arrow."

"I have reflexes twice as fast as normal humans."

"And mine is twice as strong."

"I killed solely using this arm."

"That's not all that impressive." I point out.

"True." he agrees. "Truce?"

"We were arguing?" I smirk as I stick out my metal arm, which he shakes using his own artificial limb. "Here's a tip, though: never argue with a Stark over their tech."

"Yes ma'am."

"You'll fit in just fine, Bucky."


	2. The Great Nerf War

"I'm telling you, that croissant was mine!"

"You stole my éclair, it was fair game!" my dad insists.

"I was hungry, and you weren't even going to eat all of it!" I counter.

"How would you know that?" he demands, "You stole half of it!"

"Because I knew it wasn't going to be finished!" I sigh exasperatedly, along with Natasha, who was in my corner. Bruce was standing quietly behind my dad, with Clint and Steve watching peacefully from the side while Thor just looked confused.

We were arguing over pastries. Yes, the top crime fighting team in the world was disagreeing over a box of fluffy deserts.

"We need a way to settle this." my dad declares.

"I have an idea. Wait here!" I rush out of the room, returning a moment later with an armful of plastic guns and foam bullets, which I quickly dump on the table with a clatter. "Is anyone else thinking what I am?"

"Are you thinking that you have entirely too many plastic weapons?" my dad asks with a raised eyebrow.

"No." I roll my eyes and slap his arm.

"Are you thinking in terms of a Nerf war?" Natasha asks from over my shoulder.

"Yes! Point to the spider!"

Clint's eyes light up as he suddenly dashes out of the room, returning a moment later with his own artificial arsenal.

"Something is seriously wrong with both of you." my dad grumbles. I just glance at Bruce, who gladly delivers the whack over the head.

"Thank you Bruce. Now, Cap, care to take charge?" I look at Steve, who, somehow, knows exactly what is going on.

"Sure. We needed downtime anyways. Tony, Natasha, pick your weapons. Save some for the rest of us. No more than two weapons per person, no more than fifty bullets per person. The bows and arrows are for Taylor and Clint. Clint, go scavenge for different color tape, I suggest checking the sixth floor storage room. Taylor, you and I will be tagging bullets with six colors to differentiate shooters. Bruce, you explain this to Thor. Are you playing, by the way?"

Bruce shakes his head. "We don't need an accidental Hulk out. And I think I'll take Thor out of tower until you're done, they don't make Nerf hammers."

Steve nods appreciatively. "Good idea. Get to your tasks, people!"

Clint jumps into the vents and returns just over ten minutes later with six rolls of colored duct tape. I set to helping Steve tag the bullets with different colors based on shooter; red for Natasha, blue for Steve, purple for Clint, green for my dad, and orange for me. The bullets are put into five groups of fifty each.

"Done!" I call just as Natasha slides her second gun into its holster and my dad checks his rifle while Clint finishes gathering arrows.

I get up to grab the other bow and a pistol, along with my share of bullets.

"Everybody ready?" Steve calls, and he gets five conformations.

"First one out of ammo wins. Start in three,"

I cock my pistol on my hip.

"Two,"

Clint becomes a statue.

"One!"

We all take off in five different directions.

The Great Nerf War had begun.

* * *

I dive behind a wall as a hailstorm of three red bullets pass me before quickly turning and responding with my own two orange bullets.

The faint grunt I hear is rewarding, and I say so.

"Hahaha, better luck next time!" I laugh as I sprint down a hallway to my right, taking corners at speeds that aren't healthy.

I have to stop to avoid a blonde juggernaut barreling through an intersection. Steve's to busy running either to or from something to notice me, so I dispense another bullet into his ribs.

"Hey!"

"Pay better attention, Sleeping Beauty!"

I don't see the blue bullet until it bounces at my feet.

"Pay better attention, flashlight!" he calls as he gives chase.

"Pot, kettle, black Steve!" I shout as I dash down the hallway.

Eventually I lose him in one of the more confusing bits of the tower.

I holster my pistol and decide to reach for my bow, quickly notching a foam-headed arrow, settling into a slow, silent gate.

"Come out come out wherever you are." I sing softly as I watch the shadows and the vents. occasionally rotating to watch my own back.

A single footstep in front of me at my eleven o'clock immediately has my bow up, pulled, and aimed.

"Don't shoot!" A feminine voice hisses.

I blink and lower the bow, still keeping the elastic string taught. "What is it, Natasha?"

She steps out of the shadows, a pistol cocked at each hip but with her hands free. "I need help."

"Well that's monumental." I drawl. "What are you suggesting?"

"An alliance." she states simply, no beating around the bush.

"What's in it for me?" I ask suspiciously, narrowing my eyes toward the former spy.

"A definite increase at chance of victory."

I ponder her words for a moment. "Fine." I decide, sticking a hand out. "But I had better be the Katniss here, not Rue."

Natasha just rolls her eyes and shakes my hand.

"OH MY GOD." someone in the tower shouts, and we can hear the quickly retreating footsteps. "TAYLOR AND NATASHA HAVE TEAMED UP, RUN FOR YOUR LIVEEEESSSS!"

Natasha just sends me a devil's grin and boots me into the nearest vent.

* * *

"Make that fifty seven total." I whisper from the opening of a vent, quickly scampering back as I watch the red bullet bounce off Steve's chest and listen to the soft footsteps beneath me follow me back.

"Any signs of other alliances?" Natasha hisses as we make our way down a hall.

"Signs appear between Bird and Metal, but non-confirmed." I report back using the codenames we've agreed on. "Flag seems to be floundering."

"Copy." she hisses back, then her footsteps stop for a moment and there's a pop. I quickly slide to the nearest vent grate to see my dad and Clint stumbling over their feet in a haste to get away, and Clint gets nailed with a single red bullet in the back. I quickly pop open the grate and stick just the tip of my arrow out.

My dad doesn't see it coming until it hits him in the head and I'm too far into the vents for a return shot.

" _Captain Rogers has been eliminated."_ Jarvis suddenly reports. _"Repeat, Captain Rogers is down."_

I cheer softly. One down, three to go. Don't tell Natasha I thought that.

"I have a plan." I hiss to Natasha. "Coming down."

I quickly slide out of the nearest cover and land silently next to the Widow, quickly spinning to check my surroundings.

"I have a plan to take the boys out. We don't need to hit them," I explain quietly, "just make them run out of ammo. We have to use defensive tactics, not offensive."

Natasha frowns. "Clint won't fall for that. He's a sniper, he knows not to waste bullets or arrows."

"Yeah." I agree. "Clint will most likely go down in a full out firefight. My dad, on the other hand…"

Natasha grins. "I like your brain. You do what you need to, I'll go lure the boys to us."

I nod at her back as she slips into the shadows, hoping back into a vent and quickly and quietly following her.

We eventually meet up with the boys in one of the wider hallways.

Two against two.

Girl vs. Guy.

Let round one commence.

* * *

Clint and Natasha eventually prove me right and dissolve into a full-on firefight, red and purple bullets flying everywhere as the duck for cover, pop up and empty a few bullets, and repeat.

My dad and I, on the other hand, are a completely different story.

I'm up in the vents, letting just the tip of my favored weapon poke out as I take a few shots before ducking back and letting my dad's bullets bounce harmlessly off the roof of the vents.

Shoot.

Duck.

Miss.

He does get a few hits in if I don't move quickly enough, but I get in a fair share too before he ducks.

We dance like this for a while before I duck and he shoots three more bullets into the vents. Then I don't hear anything but vehement cursing.

I cautiously peek down to see my dad waving his pistol around and stomping like a child throwing a temper tantrum.

Apparently he's frustrated by his lack of bullets.

I grin just as Jarvis comes over the intercoms. _"Mister Stark is out of ammunition. Repeat, Mister Stark is out."_

He disappears down the hall, and I turn to watch the assassins' dance, mindful of my own depleted bullet and arrow supplies.

I watch in amazement as Natasha quickly stands, just a blur, before crouching again without firing.

Clint takes the bait and fires, but Natasha goes down fast enough that it just bounces off the wall behind her.

Clint sighs and drops his gun and bow.

" _Mister Barton is eliminated. The game now stands between Miss Romanoff and Miss Stark."_

Natasha quickly runs out of the room, and I give chase.

We end up back in the living room, and Natasha freezes, allowing me time to return to the ground.

I silently land about five feet from where she stands. We stare each other down in a tense non-confrontation, our hands twitching for our guns like cowboys in an old western.

We both move quicker than the other can perceive, and then we both have barrels looking at us.

I meet Natasha's eyes in a silent understanding. _On one._

 _Three._

My eyes narrow, locking her in as a target.

 _Two._

She snarls silently at me.

 _One._

Our trigger fingers twitch simultaneously, and two bullets leave two barrels in one second.

One red bullet hits one reactor.

One orange bullet his one forehead.

 _At the same exact time._

We blink at each other for a moment before I look at the ceiling. "Jarvis."

If an AI could sigh, he would have. _"It seems to be that you and Miss Romanoff were hit concurrently, ma'am. The game results in a tie."_

Natasha and I let our jaws drop as we stare at each other, not believing our luck, before we finally snap out of it and laugh until we cry, letting tears leak out of our eyes. We quickly hug and high five as the rest of the team jogs in the room.

"How was that possible?!" my dad demands. "Whose luck is _that good_? _"_

I smirk and shrug. "Ours, it seems. We won, we won, oh yeah…"

"Congratulations, girls." Steve nods at both of us. "That was amazing."

"Thanks, Steve." Natasha grins. "Although, for a soldier, I really would have thought you had better shooting skills."

"Well, I don't use a gun on a daily basis." he admits. "I've gotten used to my shield."

She nods. "We can change that easily enough."

He grins gratefully at her, and I take a moment to look at the foam bullets covering the floor and the plastic weapons everywhere.

"You know, we should probably clean this up before Thor and Bruce get home."

Everyone takes one look at the mess and runs out at top speed, leaving only Natasha and I standing in the kitchen.

I sigh and walk over to grab the broom.

"Why must we suffer for our victory?"


	3. Scars

Sometimes, after a big battle, there isn't anything to do. No injuries to be tended to, paperwork is all done, and nobody wants to talk to anybody else because you're all too busy keep afloat in a sea of shadows and demons.

But your knuckles don't feel like being split at the moment, and there aren't any live targets available at this time.

So Natasha Romanoff retires to her room and thinks, reflects, and wonders.

 **A~A~A**

There are several things a person needs to be a superhero. Requisites, if you will.

Things like bravery, selflessness, courage, strength…those are obvious.

But there are something that heroes have that you would never expect them to need or have.

These things are a little darker, things that the best of the best do not need but they have them anyways.

Things like pain, guilt, demons, ghosts…scars.

Scars.

Every single Avenger has at least a dozen. Somewhere. With some they don't show physically.

.

Steve Rogers has scars. The guy survived World War II, _of course_ he has scars.

However, thanks to Dr. Erskine's serum, you can't see them.

To the untrained eye, the casual observer, Steve's skin seems unblemished, still smooth and tan as the day he got the serum. He would be pegged as a model if nobody knew any better.

But his teammates, his comrades, his friends? They know better. They know _much_ better.

They know that the scars did exist, once, on his skin; his arms, legs, torso, hands and feet. But at the same time they were burned into his brain.

And, thanks again to the serum, Steve can't forget.

Steve remembers every scar, every burn, every blemish. The scars from the needle injections pre-serum, the scars from the actual serum injection, the bullet holes, the stab wounds, even down to the paper cuts.

If you look close enough, get beyond the styled hair, charming smile, rippling muscles, baby blue eyes, and tan (unmarked) skin, you can see the scars.

Scars that, if you can see them, you should understand the meaning of.

Because the people that mind don't matter and the people that matter don't mind.

.

Tony Stark's scars are much, _much_ more obvious.

After all, he _is_ only human, no super serum over here.

The most obvious and eye catching is the four inch wide, four inch deep hole near his sternum that houses a glowing, neon blue life source and eternal night light. His heart, essentially.

If you look closer, however, you'll notice the less obvious yet just as telling marks.

Take his hands, for example.

Tony Stark in an engineer. A tinkerer, in simpler words. He deals with metal, tools, and sharp thing on a daily basis. And his hands show this.

Because they are calloused and rough, their entire surface littered with tiny white lines, showing where he sliced a thumb or didn't move a finger fast enough.

There's one, on his right pinkie, that Taylor deeply enjoys explaining.

She says that he was using a mallet one day, back in his weapons manufacturing heyday, when Dummy and Butterfingers came up to him, quarreling about something small and insignificant. Tony's attention went towards his bots, but the part of his brain controlling his left hand and the hammer was still on track and swinging down before he realized what was happening.

Long story short, his pinkie was shattered, the ER did surgery, and he was left with a scar across the finger and a better sense of awareness (for a few days, anyways.)

So, in recap, Tony Stark has a few obvious scars. But if you can get close enough to see the smaller ones, you should enjoy the stories.

.

Bruce Banner does not have many scars.

And it's not a disappearing act like Steve. The guy _literally_ does not have all that many scars.

Because he has the Incredible Hulk (the Other Guy) at his back and in his head, and Hulk doesn't get hurt.

Any blemishes or marks the scientist _does_ possess are pre-Hulk. Pre-Hulk, pre-University, pre-Ross, and pre-Avengers.

And also technically pre-Betty, but she's back now and she doesn't give a crap about his scars – about _anybody's_ scars – and nobody knows where to plant her on the timeline that is the life of one Dr. Robert Bruce Banner.

There's a scar about the size of a dime on his shoulder from a chicken pox vaccine when he was a kid.

A scar on his calf from a broken bone he got while climbing a too-tall tree and then looking down.

A scar on the bottom of his left foot he got from a Lego he left lying around.

Bruce Banner's scars tell stories too. Stories from a lighter time, an easier time, and a time that everyone wishes they could go back to.

.

Thor's scars are a little odd.

His scars are produced by swords, axes, magic, and horse hooves; things humans would never _encounter_ on a normal basis, let alone be _wounded_ by one.

But he isn't human.

Thor is a god. The Norse god of thunder doesn't get normal scars.

Everyone has stopped expecting it to be that way.

But there are some scars that he shares with his teammates.

Memories.

Scars on the _inside_.

His little brother's betrayal.

His own naivety.

Every one of his young, foolish, rash decisions that went south.

His banishment.

Frost Giants.

Breaking the Bifrost (the rainbow bridge for us mortals.)

Thor has been alive for over one thousand Earth years.

And the guy has seen a lot.

Of course he gained a little bit of a darker, older soul.

But he still is goofy, and loud, and a big teddy bear where Taylor's concerned.

We love that about him.

.

Clint Barton; former circus boy, archer, sniper, sharpshooter, assassin, and spy.

You'll only notice his scars after he lowers his walls and lets you take the first step inside.

His scars are cast in a darker light, a shadier image; they're usually made by the hands of the enemy.

Usually.

One between his shoulder blades was made by a tightrope. Somehow.

But ninety nine percent of his scars are the result of someone else hitting him, shooting him, or cutting him in some way or another.

If you, for some reason, want to know about his earlier scars as Hawkeye, Natasha or Coulson might be your best bet.

If you can convince them. Most can't.

For his more recent scars, Taylor is your go-to girl.

And you'll need to do even more convincing.

She's more tight-lipped about him than Natasha is.

And the reason nobody will tell you anything is because Clint's scars are usually tied to memories.

Painful memories at best.

Memories Clint would rather not be dragged through and nobody else want to recount.

His scars have stories, just like everyone else's.

Good luck finding them, though.

.

Natasha Romanoff is _covered_ in scar tissue, she wears it almost like a second skin.

She's no stranger to blemishes; in fact, she's used to them.

She's been in this game since seven, deadly since thirteen, and always a threat, a looming shadow.

Wouldn't you be used to it?

She's had so much stolen from her so many times.

She's been forced to be so many people to do so many things.

Scars are accredited as second nature by now for the Black Widow.

And most of these scars are only brought up inside her own mind, some with Coulson or Clint.

Not even her new teammates know the full extent; they've learned not to ask, learned that there are some lines that are never to be crossed unless you're invited to do so.

Natasha's scars tell horrific tales.

Ones that she would much rather keep to herself for the foreseeable future, thank you very much.

.

Finally, we come across Taylor Stark.

Taylor's scars almost mirror her fathers'; reactor, scarred hands, give or take a few, with a few obvious exceptions.

And adding in one depressing factor: age.

Most people forget that Taylor's still a teenager and that no child should be subjected to what she has fought through.

A normal eighteen year old should be stressing about college, not fighting for her life in some dark, moldy prison cell at the hands of a twisted god.

She should not have been running from the law and multiple governments just before her one-year anniversary with her boyfriend.

She should not have been forced to imprison her own mother, her flesh and blood for crimes committed against an entire _world_ , crimes committed for five decades.

Key word: _should not_. But she did. And she has numerous scars to show for it.

Next to the reactor, her most obvious scar is her right arm.

Her _metal_ right arm.

Outside of the arm itself, the shoulder has the most to show for the missing appendage.

Her right shoulder is still a mass of angry, red crisscrossed lines and blisters even four years later.

If you were to run a hand over Taylor's shoulder and then a normal shoulder and compare the two, Taylor's skin would feel like burlap next to silk, most of her scars still raised slightly.

Her back is also an angry mess, dominated by seven long lashes from a stick wielded by a maniac set on breaking her.

She didn't break.

She still hasn't broken.

She's still here, and in one piece, albeit perforated.

We applaud her for that.

 **A~A~A**

So everyone has scars.

Young, old, veteran, civilian, soldier, or spy.

That much is understood, laid out in concrete.

What is not sure is what the person plans to do with them.

Hide them?

Parade them?

Do you boast or be bashful?

Only you can decide that.

Because they're only your scars.

.

(What? Natasha can be thoughtful. But only when she's bored. Now they're serving pizza downstairs, so she's busy with other things at the moment.)


	4. Ruffled Feathers

"Go on, talk to him. I'll be right here when you get back, promise." I chuckle as I nudge my boyfriend towards the bar where Steve was sitting.

"Okay, okay." he raises his hands in mock surrender with a smile. "You don't have to tell me twice."

"I already did!" I call at his back as he walks away and I turn back towards the table with the food on it and help myself to the appetizers.

I was at the annual Star Industries' Fall Gala with the rest of the team. Currently my dad was out charming associates, Bruce and Betty were hiding, Natasha was teaching Thor how to waltz, Steve was people watching, and Clint and I were just enjoying each other's company before he went to go talk to Steve.

I dip another fruit piece in the chocolate fountain as I watch men in suits twirl with ladies in elegant dresses, being mindful not to drip chocolate on my own deep purple sequined evening gown.

"Can I help you with something, beautiful?" a silky voice purrs behind me, and I slowly turn to see a boy about a year older than me, dressed in a light gray suit with a silky navy tie.

"No, I think I have everything under control here." I reply in a monotonous tone, the guy's tone sending shivers down my back.

"Are you sure, gorgeous?" he presses, and I instinctively lean slightly back.

"Yeah," I assure him. "Pretty sure. Who are you?"

"Oh, where are my manners?" The guy chuckles. "I am Darren Walkerton, Jr." he tells me, extending a hand.

"Son of Darren Walkerton, Sr., head of Walkerton Industries?" I ask, tentatively shaking his hand then discreetly wiping a hand on the tablecloth behind me.

"The very same. We are looking forward to receiving those tablets, Miss Stark." he smirks, leaning forward ever so slightly.

"Ah, yes, we look forward to doing business with you." I gush quickly, trying not to look too much like a cornered animal.

"You know what would make that contract even better?" he purrs. "If the companies were tied by their heirs."

I blink at him absorbing the implications of that last statement. "Mr. Walkerton-"

"Please, call me Darren." he cuts me off. "And come on, what is a beautiful girl like you doing out here all alone? I'm sure you'd like some company."

"Actually-" I try again, only to get cut off once more.

"One little dance won't hurt, will it gorgeous?" Darren presses, leaning a little closer.

" _Mr. Walkerton_." I almost yell, refusing to be cut off again. "I do not think my boyfriend would appreciate that much." I warn him, risking a glance over his shoulder towards where Clint and Steve are sitting, both of their eyes a little darker and their shoulders tense. Steve leans over to whisper something to Clint, who nods stiffly and sets his Sprite down.

"-boyfriend is a lucky guy, Miss Stark. But I am positive he wouldn't mind a pretty girl like you dancing with another man." I catch Darren in the middle of a sentence. "He wouldn't mind at all, right?"

"Actually," I whisper, "he would." I grab Darren's shoulder and spin him around, putting him face to face with a ticked off Clint.

Clint clears his throat quietly, drawing himself up to his full height of six feet. "Who would you be?" he asks, his voice dangerously calm.

"Darren Walkerton Jr, heir of Walkerton Industries. I was just asking this beautiful lady to a dance-"

"Yeah, see, that's the problem." Clint drawls, cutting him off and sidestepping him to stand next to me. "That 'beautiful lady' is my girlfriend. Who, if I do not hurt you by some miracle, can kick your butt in under three seconds."

"And who, exactly, are you, 'Mr. Hotshot Boyfriend'?" Darren sneers, complete with finger quotes.

"I," Clint drops his voice and steps forward into Darren's personal space, "am Clint Barton, better known as Hawkeye. I am an assassin, sniper, and Avenger."

With every credential Darren paled a little, so that by the end he was wide eyed and whiter than Dracula during a fast.

"Now," Clint continues, "You will be removed from the premises by a good friend of mine, Captain America. If you _ever_ come within five feet of Taylor Stark again, you will not live to see the next day. Are we clear?"

"Y-Yes s-sir, M-Mr. Barton." Darren squeaks and stutters.

Clint doesn't say anything, just waves a hand. Steve steps out of the crowd to our lefts, flashing me a smile and roughly throwing Darren over his shoulder without breaking stride.

"Possessive male does not suit you." I sigh as Clint straightens his charcoal grey vest and turns back to me.

"I know." he agrees hesitantly. "But he was being a creepy douchebag."

I nod quickly. "That he was. Sort of like that one waiter."

Clint nods, satisfied that his point was driven home. "Why do you always attract the worst guys?"

I shrug. "I have no clue, maybe it's the tech, the money, or the fame. Besides," I point out, "they aren't _all_ bad. I got you."

"True." Clint nods with a cheeky grin as I brush a crumb off his dark purple handkerchief. "Care to dance, my lady?"

I tip my head slightly to listen to the slow melody that just came on over the speakers. "Don't mind if I do." I grin, taking the offered hand and allowing myself to be spun onto the dance floor.

I laugh as Clint tickles my side, retaliating by brushing my fingers across the back of his neck, causing him to twitch and squirm.

I might have a bad record with attracting guys that look more at home in the Mafia or a dark alleyway.

But I have one card to trump them all: the guy that is at home with me.


	5. Truth or Dare (Avengers style)

"Can you hear that?"

"What?" my dad looks up from his tablet. "I don't hear anything."

"Exactly." I grin and look around at the assembled superheroes. Steve and Bruce were in the kitchen and quietly cooking a pie of some sort, Clint was curled in the chair across from me, cleaning his bow, Thor and Jane currently had possession of the TV remote and were watching some sort of soap opera, Natasha and Darcy were at my feet painting their nails, Betty was sprawled on the recliner with a book, and I was reading an business article while my dad worked on some new schematics for the latest Starkphone.

And all was quiet.

"It's too quiet." my dad whines from his chair next to me.

I sigh and look up from my tablet. "Dad, don't do-"

"Who wants to play a game?" my dad breaks that peaceful quiet I was talking about earlier.

"-anything stupid." I sigh regretfully.

"Too late." Clint smirks.

I huff and watch as everyone in the room looks up at my dad, who is now standing in the center of the room with the face he has when he gets a really bad idea that he thinks is a really _good_ idea.

"What is it, Tony." Steve sighs as he sets down his bowl and mixing spoon.

"It got too quiet in here." my dad explains. "So who wants to play a game?"

"What kind of game?" Natasha questions skeptically. "Because the last time you suggested this-"

"I know, I know." my dad huffs. "But I promise, nobody's getting arrested this time."

Natasha just gives him a look and settles back tensely.

"Come on, please? Brucey?" my dad pleads.

Bruce just sighs heavily. "Does it involve the Other Guy?"

My dad shrugs. "Depends on how things go."

Bruce just gives him a long look, opting to stay silent.

Finally, I decide to have a little pity. "What kind of game?"

"Truth or Dare!" my dad claps, his eyes lighting up. Everyone groans, but personally, I don't mind. There isn't a lot these nine people don't know about me, and if they don't know….I will find a way to deflect that question when I get there.

"Seriously, Tony?" Natasha speaks up indecorously. "That game is pretty much the bane of a spy's existence. You either tell a secret or are forced to do something stupid."

"Exactly."

"You know you can refuse a question, right Tasha?" I question her.

She shrugs, but I can tell she's swaying in opinion.

"I'll play." I eventually decide, giving my dad a high five as he cheers.

"Taylor-" Clint starts, but I give him the big blue puppy eyes nobody in this group can resist. Especially Clint and my dad.

"Clint."

"No-"

"Cliiint."

"Nooo."

"Come _on_."

"Ugh, fine, you manipulator." Clint huffs but sets his bow aside anyways.

"Yay! Clint and Taylor are in." my dad cheers. "Who else?"

"I'm going to regret this later," Natasha sighs, "but count me in."

"Jarvis, when was truth or dare invented?" I call, looking at the ceiling.

" _The game has existed for centuries, with at least one variant, Questions and Commands, being attested as early as 1712; wherein the commander bids his subjects to answer a question which is asked. If the subject refuses, or fails to satisfy the commander, he must pay a forfeit [follow a command] or have his face smutted, or dirtied."_

"Right, thanks J. So even Steve should know how to play. Cap?"

"I do know how to play." Steve admits. "There was just nobody to play with and no time to play."

"Okay, so that's why you had no life." Clint concludes. "Come on, dude, live a little."

"Alright." he concedes. "I'm in."

"Five!" my dad shouts. "Five left."

I look at Betty, Jane, and Darcy. "What have you three got to lose?"

They just roll their eyes back at me, but agree anyways.

"Eight. Thor?" I peer at the blonde god.

"I do not know how to play this game of honesty and commands." Thor booms.

"Thor, buddy, all you have to do is pick truth or dare when someone asks you. If you pick truth, you answer the question honestly. If you pick dare, you do whatever you're told."

"Ah, thank you Lady Stark. I shall play your game, comrades!"

"Bruce?"

All eyes are suddenly on the scientist.

He just nods silently.

"Okay, everyone find a seat!" my dad orders.

"We're all sitting already." I remind him.

He looks sheepish as he sits back down next to me. "Oh right. Who wants to go first?"

Everyone just shifts and nobody wants to go first.

"Fine." Dad sighs. "Bruce, truth or dare?"

Bruce scrunches his eyebrows before carefully replying. "Truth, for the safety of everyone involved."

"When and where did you first kiss Betty?"

He tilts his head. "Isn't that two questions?"

My dad waves a hand dismissively. "Technicalities, technicalities."

"Fine." Bruce sighs. "Okay, um…I think it was 1980, Christmas…in, um….Betty?"

"Maine." Betty offers with a small, dreamy smile.

"Right, Maine. We were reading, and it was late, and the lighting was…just…" he trails off with a slight blush and a shrug.

"Oh my god." Jane, Darcy, Natasha and I mutter.

"That sounds adorable!" Darcy squeals. "Almost as cute as these two." she gestures towards Clint and me.

Bruce's cheeks turn rosy as he clears his throat. "Steve, truth or dare?"

"Um…truth?"

Bruce looks thoughtful for a moment. "What was the most embarrassing situation you've been in with a girl?"

Steve tilts his head a little. "Uh…I think it was…okay, there was this one time on a blind Date Darcy sent me on-"

"Oh crap, this will be bad." Jane muses quietly, ducking the pillow spiraling towards her head.

"Anyways, so this blind date turns up. And you will never believe what she's wearing."

"Oh, do I want to know?" I groan rhetorically.

"What, Steve?" Natasha humors him, placing a hand on my leg.

"Body paint. _Only_ body paint." Steve shudders, nodding at our horror-ridden, shocked expressions. "Is that normal?"

"No." my dad quickly recovers. "No, it's not. Not, at least, in mainstream culture. Select crowds, you know. Most people still have a drop of dignity. Darcy, FYI that is the last time you set anyone up on a blind date."

Darcy just nods sheepishly.

"Not your fault, Darcy." Steve assures her. "So, yeah, that was really bad. Now…Thor, truth or dare?"

"I will take your challenge, Captain of America!"

"So, dare." I quietly clarify for a confused Steve.

"Right." Steve nods. "…Tony, do you still have that outfit?"

My dad quirks an eyebrow. "The one with…"

"Yeah, that one." Steve agrees vaguely.

My dad nods, and Steve turns back to Thor. "Thor, I dare you to go with Tony and put on the clothes he shows you."

My dad leads Thor out of the room, and the rest of us are left to wait and wonder.

"What outfit?" I narrow my eyes at Steve.

He waves me off. "You'll see."

I share a puzzled glance with the rest of the room, but shrug at sit back to wait for them to return.

"Ta-DA!"

I look up at my dad, who has reentered the room and is now holding his hands out as if to present Thor.

Thor…Thor is stripped of his usual red and silver armor, dressed in an outfit like it, but this one's pink. And sparkly. And bedazzled.

And hey, look, there's a Hello Kitty style bow in his hair!

I send an incredulous look towards my dad and Steve, who just shrug. The rest of the room is either falling over laughing or snapping numerous pictures with their phones, if not both.

"Okay, two questions." I announce once I compose myself. "One: where did you get the outfit?" I look at my dad again, then turn to Steve. "And two: where did you get the idea?"

My dad just casually shrugs. "I had time, money, and a Thor costume at my disposal."

Steve scratches the back of his neck. "I saw something online, something your dad showed me."

I don't have anything to say to that, so I just snap a few more photos before Thor goes back to change again. "Jarvis, remind me to save these onto multiple servers, just in case."

Thor reenters the room, loud as ever. "Widow of Black, will you be honest or take my command?"

"Don't dare me if you want to live." Natasha deadpans. "Fine…truth."

Thor doesn't have to think long about it. "Tell us what happened in the land call Budapest."

Natasha shrugs. "A mission."

Seven annoyed stares and one grateful look – Clint – turn on her. I'm not worried; she's already assured me nothing happen _between_ her and Clint, it was just a mission gone south.

Like, really south. It ended up somewhere near the South Pole.

"What?" Natasha defends herself indignantly. "It was a mission. You asked what went down, and it was a mission."

"She has a point." Bruce points out. Everyone grumbles but eventually concedes.

"Taylor." Natasha calls over. "Truth or dare?"

I tilt my head slightly. "I'll do…truth."

"Okay. What is your favorite thing about your boyfriend?"

I wrinkle my nose and blush slightly. "I'd like to change to dare. Please tell me I can do that."

Natasha glances at my dad, who shrugs with a nod. "Okay then. I dare you to tell me what you like most about your boyfriend."

"Tasha!" I groan. She just quirks an eyebrow and smirks.

"Fine." I grumble. "Okay, let's see…"

"Is this that hard?" Clint whines.

I just send him a look. "Alright. I like his eyes, his hair, his bow, and just his nature in general. He's…he's really sweet."

My dad makes a vague sound of disgust while Natasha smirks smugly and the rest of the girls fall over squealing.

Clint beams at me, which I mirror before settling everyone else down. "Okay, _okay_. Dad, truth or dare?"

"Starks do dares." my dad crows proudly.

"Maybe you do, but me?" I shrug. "Okay. I dare you to…steal Fury's eye patch!"

Everyone stares at me incredulously. "He's not stealthy." Natasha and Clint remind me at the same time.

I just shrug.

My dad just shrugs and stands, warning us "If I'm not back in at least half an hour, come get me." before standing and walking out of the room.

Nine pairs of eyes watch him go, then turn towards each other.

"Okay, who's next?" Natasha pipes up, possibly too cheerfully. "Clint, truth or dare?"

"Truth." Clint announces resolutely. "I will go nowhere near Fury."

"Okay…when did you first fall for Taylor?"

"What is it with the romantic questions, all of you?" Clint runs a hand through his hair before hopping out of his chair and taking my dad's vacant seat next to me. "Well…I'd have to say if was after Paris, with the archery lessons I gave her. I mean, it was illegal then, but ya know…"

The girls fall over cooing again.

"Betty." Clint cuts them off. "Truth or dare?"

She sighs. "I might regret this, but dare."

Clint's eyes light up. "Tell us an embarrassing high school or college Bruce story!"

Bruce groans and rubs a hand over his face as Betty's face splits into a maniac grin. "Okay, okay, there's this one time when he was cramming for this one test, senior year, and he was mixing these two chemicals I won't bother to name-"

"Thank you." Steve buts in.

"Welcome. Anyways, so it was midnight, and he was half asleep, so instead of pouring in a milligram, he drops the entire beaker in. There was a huge explosion of pink smoke, a-and h-he.." She pauses to collapse into laughter. "And when it dissipated, he was stuck to the desk! His hands were literally glued to the desktop!"

"What did you do?" I gasp in the midst of a snorting episode.

"I told his teacher he was out sick with the chicken pox and swine flu." she giggles. "He was rewarded with the honored title of Bruce 'Chicken Swine' Banner." she smirks as Bruce buries his head in his arms.

The rest of us collapse into breathless laughter.

"Hey." I suddenly sober. "How long has it been since my dad left?"

Natasha scrambles up. "Half an hour."

"Um. Should we-"

A bang cuts Steve off and we all whirl towards the door, hands on our various weapons.

"I'm here!" my dad yelps. "Here."

"Did you get the eye patch?" I ask, moving my hand from my knife and relaxing my body.

"Does a picture count?" he pants. "It had better. I had to, like, Mission Impossible for this."

I raise an eyebrow. "Well, I don't know…"

"C'mon, glowstick…"

I roll my eyes. "Fine, yes, sure. Now, go shower, you smell." I wave him towards the elevator. "Jarvis?"

" _I will see to it, ma'am."_

"So, who next?" Steve pipes up.

"I think we've all had enough excitement for a while." Natasha pants. "At least until the next apocalypse."

"Yeah." I concede, "So, class, what have we learned today?"

"Your dad is actually afraid of Fury." Steve offers.

"Clint and Taylor are like Romeo and Juliet, except alive." Darcy pipes in.

"Tony should not be trusted with a bedazzler and Thor's costume." Clint suggests.

"Bruce 'Chicken Swine' Banner." Jane says simply.

"And we _still_ do not have a clue about Budapest." I huff.

"And you never will." Natasha ruffles my hair.

A content silence falls between the nine of us.

"JARVIS, I SAID _HOT_ WATER, DO YOU WANT ME TO FREEZE?!"


	6. Proof Tony Stark has Friends

Tony's POV

The lab doors swish open just before my blasting music is brought down a couple notches, and I sigh and set down my tools before slowly turning to see either a) what I need to sign, or b) which teammate is forcing me out into the real world.

As it turns out, option A holds true.

Taylor plops a file on my desk with a tired sigh as she hitches a hip on the edge of the workspace next to said file. "Mission report from Thursday, with the huge globs of whatever in and near Fort Hamilton. You need to sign a few things."

I send a small smile towards my VP, secretary, and daughter. "Thanks. I swear I will die by paperwork."

She just shrugs. "I'll write your obituary if I don't fall first."

I just smile as I peruse the reports, signing where necessary as Taylor walks over to her desk and idly pokes at her project and the surrounding holograms.

"You know," I muse, "This would have been a lot easier with one of those military liaisons Fury was always trying to shove down our throats."

"Don't we already have one of those?"

"Yes, _we_ ," I motion between the two of us, "do. But he only goes as far as SI." I point out.

Taylor's smirk grows as she gains a twinkle in her eyes. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

I quirk an eyebrow. "Are you thinking about hotdogs and Coney Island?"

She just stares at me until I answer.

"Fine, yeah, yeah, give the guy a call, he's past due on his bi-monthly visits anyways."

There's a little bounce in her step as she grabs the files again and leaves the lab.

 **A~A~A**

"Hey, Tony, there's a big guy downstairs giving security issues, would you know anything about that?"

I look up from my coffee and magazine to blink at Clint. "Name?"

"A Colonel Rhodes."

"Taylor." I sigh, turning my barstool towards the couches. "Go free your godfather from Hansen's nutjobs."

"Why can't Happy do it?" she whines, getting up and entering the elevator anyways, although still mumbling about how this was below her pay grade.

I brush off Clint's confused and skeptical look and take a sip of my coffee.

Taylor bounds up the steps not five minutes later, a duffle bag on her arm and an imposing six foot man in tow.

"Rhodey!" I call. "How ya doing, platypus?"

He pulls me into a one-handed man-hug as Taylor tosses his bag onto a couch. "Hey, Tony."

"How have you been, cupcake?" I chirp as I grab his favorite coffee brand, ignoring the strange looks I'm getting from the majority of my teammates.

He just shrugs. "Busy. Really, really busy. Thanks."

I nod as he takes the mug and slides into a barstool, and I quickly inventory all the Avengers in the room before turning to Clint again. "Can you get Steve, Natasha, and Bruce in here? They need to meet Rhodey."

Clint blinks once and nods before he's gone in an instant.

I will never understand how my daughter is comfortable around, and even _welcomes_ , people like that.

But to each his/her own, I suppose.

I give my best friend a quick rundown of the situation before Clint pops back in with the Tower's other resident spy, captain, and scientist.

"Hey guys." I call. "Meet Colonel James Rhodes."

Steve instantly snaps to, while Natasha give a small, knowing smirk and Bruce just looks confused.

I wait until Rhodey releases Steve from his salute to begin instructions. "Air Force Colonel James Rhodes, known to friends-"

"Only you, Tony."

"-as Rhodey." I finish, completely ignoring his interruption. "He's Stark Industries military liaison."

"And, like, your only human, non-Avenger friend." Taylor cuts in from her perch on the back of the nearest couch.

"And the better half of your two godfathers." I counter, ignoring her jibe.

"Better half?" Steve questions. "What's with the other half?"

The room quickly grows silent, and I can see both Natasha and Taylor flinch imperceptibly. Clint lets out a brutal cough that sounds almost like 'read the files'.

"Anyways." I break in, a little too loud, "He's going to be our military liaison, too, to help with cases like Thursday's. And if that's going to happen, I think introductions are in order."

I spin towards the gathered team and wave a hand towards Steve. "Rhodey, meet Captain Steve Rogers, Captain America. America's Golden Child in a sparkly suit."

"So you're Tony's friend?" Steve smirks. "How did a Colonel like you get to be buddies with him?"

Rhodey opens his mouth to explain, but Taylor beats him to the punch.

" _Captain_." she deadpans, using the same tone she utilized when she first met Steve. That 'don't mess with my family, I will hunt you down' scary tone.

Steve looks at her, then back at the two of us, looking very sheepish and shy all of a sudden. "Sorry, Colonel."

"It's alright, Captain. We went to MIT together." Rhodey explains with a genial smile.

"Nex up, this is my science bro, Dr. Bruce Banner, and his alter ego, Hulk."

"I've heard a lot about you, Doctor." Rhodey grins. "This numbskull never shuts up about you."

Bruce just gives a small smirk. "I could say the same about you. Seriously, never quiet."

"I'm _right here_." I groan, because what was I thinking, they're already ganging up on me.

They both just give me infuriating grins.

I sigh and wave a hand towards Natasha. "Natasha Romanoff, Black Widow, my ex-not-really-assistant."

Rhodey nods as he sips his coffee. "Ms. Rushman."

Natasha just silently acknowledges him and his place in that whole fiasco.

Next I motion towards the big, blonde, monstrosity of a god denting my couch cushions. "Thor, Norse god of thunder, all that great historical stuff, yadda, yadda, yadda."

Rhodey shakes his head in disbelief. "God, your life gets crazier every day, I swear. First it was the suit, now you house a freaking god. Aliases?"

"Uh…Thor?"

"Good enough." he shrugs.

"And finally, Clint Barton, Hawkeye." I flick a hand towards the archer. "Sniper, spy, ex-assassin, all that good stuff."

Rhodey looks at me, Clint, and then back again. "There's something you aren't mentioning here."

"Oh, _yeah_." I drawl, tuning out Taylor's groans in the background. "Did I mention he's Taylor's boyfriend?"

Rhodey just fixes Clint with the stony glare he normally saves for terrorists, and I can tell they will be having words (read: shovel talk) later.

"Anyone else?" Rhodey asks as Clint blinks and turns away.

I shake my head. "These are the Avengers. Box set, original packaging, collectors model. There are a few girlfriends wandering about the tower, and one slightly psychotic intern, but you'll happen upon them soon enough."

Rhodey just shrugs indifferently. "Sounds good. I already know what my job is, so I've said my piece."

An awkward silence falls, nobody knowing what to do, until Steve calls dismissed and grabs a newspaper before leaving the room himself, leaving just Taylor, Rhodey, and I.

"So." Taylor clears her throat. "I really hope you got that one drug dealer I sent you."

"Taylor, that was over a year ago, of course I did."

"Oh good, because if you _didn't_ I'd be forced to reevaluate your credentials and stuff."

" _What_ credentials?!"

"Exactly!"

"Alright," I cut in, "You're both horrible at small talk, I've got bigger topics." I spin around so I'm facing my best friend. "Like how you, my friend, outrank Captain America."

Rhodey sees the mischief in our eyes and lets his forehead meet the table with a groan.


	7. Falling on Deaf Ears

Taylor's POV

" _Beta, how's your area looking?"_

" _Pretty good, Cap. Although I must say, these things are resilient."_ I grunt as I fire at one of the metallic canines we were currently fighting. _"They just don't stay down, do they?"_

" _Focus, Beta."_ Steve reminds me gently. _"How's the progress coming on Dr. Doom?"_

" _I'm about a block away."_ Natasha reports with a background of metal hitting metal. _"I have eyes on Thor too."_

" _Good."_ I can almost hear Steve's nod through the comm. _"Widow, keep eyes on him. Work your way towards Doom, sure and steady."_

" _Got it. Widow out."_

I dive sharply to avoid a set of gleaming steel teeth before flipping onto my back and firing up at the owner of the teeth, hitting the huge metal Fido square in the jaw and jarring its head, taking the chance to zip away before it regains its senses. "Hulk!"

I smirk as a roar resounds off the surrounding skyscrapers, followed by a sickening crunch and the sound of squealing metal.

One down. And two more on my tail.

" _Hawkeye, where are you?"_

" _At the corner of Park and Emerson, Beta. Why?"_

" _I'm swinging your way, got two on my tail."_

" _Ready and waiting."_

I swing into a wide, turning dive as I round a building and just barely hear the whisper of two arrows.

Two impacts, two sizzles, and two robotic yelps and then two crashes make me grin as I look back onto the piles of sparking, smoldering metal.

" _These new electric arrows are amazing."_

" _You're welcome."_ my dad and I chorus cheekily.

" _You guys…"_

My ears perk up at her worried tone. _"What is it, Widow?"_

" _Heads up,"_ she rushes, and I can hear the tension in her voice, _"Doom has an EMP bomb."_

I can hear the whoosh of air as everyone suck in a breath. _"Iron Man, how our EMP shields look?"_

" _Mediocre at best."_ my dad admits. _"We better hope Doom does not have his hands on any serious power right now."_

" _Guys, comms will go out."_ Steve reminds us morosely. _"I need our aerial fighters to get a visual on as many of us as you can."_

" _On it."_ I nod, my words mirrored by Iron Man and Thor, as I zoom upwards and peak above the skyscrapers.

There's a red metallic glint to my northwest and a splash of red and silver to my direct right. Looking down, I can see a figure in red, white and blue as well as an archer almost directly below me. _"I have eyes on Cap and Hawkeye."_ I report, scanning the area for Doom.

" _I have visual on Hulk."_ my dad reports.

" _I can see the Widow of Black!"_ Thor shouts, almost deafening us all.

" _Good, now, I need Iron Man and Iron Beta to-"_ a loud, static crackle followed by an even louder pop cuts Steve off, and then I can't hear anyone anymore.

But I do have more pressing problems at the moment. Like the fact that I'm now encased in a falling metal box and I can barely see a thing.

"Jarvis?" I call. "Emergency power!"

No sound besides the wind whistling past me.

"Jarvis?"

Still nothing.

"Okay, he's not online yet. Time for plan B then." My voice echoes slightly inside my helmet.

Plan B, by the way, is to curl into the tightest ball possible, protect my back and head, and brace for impact.

And it's a good thing, too, because I hit the ground hard. Like, Hulk smash _hard_.

I slam into the ground with my back in the air, my curled arms and legs taking the full force of the hit. I instantly wince at the pain jarring through a few of my ribs and my left arm, and I have never been so thankful for my cyborg right arm.

I slowly uncurl, crying out as I move my left arm – probably broken – and my ribs, but I eventually trigger the manual release switches and roll out of the suit.

I dig through the pockets in my pants for a while before I find my emergency, Jarvis-only earpiece, tossing my normal comm aside as I push it in. "Jarvis?"

" _I'm online, ma'am, at your service."_

"Good." I sigh pitifully. "Can you read my vitals?"

" _Yes ma'am. Your heart and blood pressure rates are quicker than average, your breathing is quick and slightly shallow, and your temperature has dropped just slightly. May I suggest medical attention?"_

"Yeah, yeah." I brush him off, "I will. Once I find the others and get out of here. Are the comms working?"

" _Negative."_

"Fine," I huff, "stupid EMP. Can you detect the others?"

" _I have found six other Avengers, Miss Stark, and they all seem to be converging on 37_ _th_ _street."_

I thank him as I begin jogging slowly towards the apparent rendezvous point, cradling my left arm with my right.

About half an hour later, I make round a final corner that takes me onto 37th, and I'm greeted by six other walking but wounded Avengers.

"You okay?" Steve calls over to me as soon as he sees me.

"Pretty much," I assure him, "nothing worse than what I've had before."

Everyone seems to relax slightly at my report, everyone except-

-everyone except Clint.

Now that I actually get a good look at my boyfriend, I realize that he has his back to the rest of us, his head bowed, and his shoulders hunched and tense.

"Clint?"

"He's not responding." Steve whispers sullenly from behind me. "He hasn't been."

I spin to face the Captain. "What do you mean, 'not responding'? Is it a code-"

"No." Steve shakes his head. "His breathing is steady and he doesn't look panicked. He does, however, look nervous and slightly tense."

I hum absently, turning back to the archer. "You said he hasn't been responding…how long?"

Steve shrugs. "Since he got here. I was first on scene, then Hulk, and then Clint. He's barely moved since."

"And he was on the comms before we all went down…" I trail off, letting theories run through my head.

So the EMP must've done something, but what could make Clint seemingly not hear us-

 _Oh._

I quickly turn to Natasha to share my idea, but Natasha's currently curled unconscious on the ground, Bruce seeing to whatever wounds she may have.

I sigh as I gingerly step forward and towards Clint. I walk around him so I'm in his field of vision before waving a hand in front of his face.

He blinks at me, surprised, before tilting his head much like a puppy would.

I raise a concerned eyebrow, and he blinks again slowly before tapping his ear.

I sigh again as I raise my hands. _What happened?_ I sign at him.

 _Hearing aids went during E-M-P,_ he signs slowly.

I blink at him. _How bad?_

 _Can't hear a thing,_ he tells me, _deaf as an old man._

I sigh. _Spares?_

 _S-H-I-E-L-D. Never got them back._

 _Why?_ I glare sternly at him.

 _Sorry,_ he shrugs, and I huff again.

Before I can respond, Steve steps in. "What's going on?"

I turn back to Clint. _You never told them?_

 _No,_ he signs slowly.

Turning back to Steve, I reply "I'll tell you in the tower. How're we getting home?"

"The jet should be here in about five minutes." Steve tells me, still confused, and I nod gratefully at him before turning back to Clint again.

 _Jet will be here in five,_ I sign, _stick close till then._

He nods before looking me up and down. _You okay?_

 _Yes, nothing bad._

He sends me a pointed glare. _You're favoring your arm._

 _Nothing bad._ I repeat as we hear jet engines overhead.

He sighs as the jet lands, and I grab his elbow and drag him towards the jet before he can push it any further.

Once on the jet, I seat myself close to Clint, always keeping some kind of physical contact.

"Who's flying?" Steve inquires as we all get our gear and weapons stored away.

"Right now?" I ask. "Jarvis. Nat, can you fly?"

"Concussion," she moans quietly, "bad, bad concussion."

"Right, so she's going nowhere near the pilot's seat. Clint…can't fly right now, and I need to stick with him. Steve?"

"I can fly, but I need a copilot."

I glance towards the cockpit, then back at Steve. "Would an AI work?"

He nods and disappears into the cockpit.

I lean slightly into Clint as the jet takes off. My dad raises an eyebrow at me, then flicks a hand towards Clint in a silent question.

 _Tell you later,_ I mouth at him, _please._

He nods, and I prop my head on my boyfriend's shoulder as we get closer to home.

 **A~A~A**

I'm still next to Clint after we've been checked out by the med staff, my left arm confirmed as broken and in a cast, covered by a sling for my dislocated shoulder. I also have a few ribs bandaged under my t-shirt.

I was now sitting on a hospital bed next to Clint; who, thankfully, has nothing more than cuts and scrapes for me to explain to the doctors.

Natasha was next to us, sleeping off an extreme concussion, and my dad was next to her with a sprained knee and ankle – on the same leg. Steve, Bruce, and Thor were all uninjured and are lounging in hospital chairs spread across the room.

"Hey Taylor," Steve grabs my attention, "what was that thing back there? With Clint?"

I bite my lip and glance at Clint, who sends me a pleading look and squeezes my right hand.

 _Why don't you want to tell them?_ I sigh clumsily with just one hand.

 _Would you want someone to know your disability?_

 _My disabilities are obvious,_ I point out, tapping my reactor and hand.

 _But if they weren't?_ Clint signs quickly.

 _Then I would trust my team enough to have my back,_ I wave a hand around the room.

 _Taylor, I can't, not with S-H-I-E-L-D and news and press and Hawkeye needs to be strong-_

His hand movements are getting ever more frantic, so I quickly grab one of his wrists and lower it into his lap.

 _Yes,_ I tell him, _Hawkeye needs to be strong, but does Clint Barton?_

"Uh, guys?"

Clint slumps as I turn to face Steve, who's looking at us like we're speaking a foreign language.

Technically, sign language _is_ another language.

I sigh and send a pleading glance at Clint, who hesitates slightly before giving a small nod.

 _Can I see one of your hearing aids?_ I ask him, and he nods again, so I gently grab one of the small devices in his ear.

"When the EMP struck," I sigh, "it didn't only take out the comms and the suits. It also rendered Clint unable to respond to any of us."

"What? How?"

"This." I uncurl my hand, showing the useless hearing aid.

"Is that…" Bruce starts.

"Yes," I nod, "a hearing aid. The EMP completely trashed them, and Clint literally hasn't been able to hear a word said since."

"Unable to respond to any of us…" Bruce blinks. "Except you. That was sign language, wasn't it?"

I nod silently, never letting go of Clint's hand.

"So that's why you couldn't fly," my dad concludes, "You were too busy translating for Birdbrain."

"Still here, y'know." Clint reminds us, his words slightly slurred. "What?" he protests at Steve's incredulous look. "I'm deaf, not mute. I can read lips just fine, s'long as you don't talk as fast as normal."

"I do not talk fast!" my dad cries indignantly.

"You do."

"Do not."

"You do."

"Shut your pie hole, feather head."

Clint aggressively signs something at me, and I gently smack his shoulder. "I am _not_ translating that."

"Who else knows this mysterious language of signs?" Thor booms before he's shushed by Bruce, mainly for Natasha's benefit.

"Natasha does, of course," I nod at the redhead, "Along with Fury, Coulson, Hill, Stillwell did…"

"So, in this group, you and Natasha are the only ones?" Steve surmises.

"Yeah." Clint and I nod.

Steve runs a hand through his hair. "Remind me to keep one of you close to Clint at all times."

"Shouldn't be too hard," I smirk, "seeing as I'm his girlfriend and she's his best friend and mine."

"When did you find out?" Bruce squints at me.

"I found out right after I got my arm and reactor." I shrug, "He showed me while I was in the hospital. I learned sign language right after we started dating, in Asgard and that one safe house."

"Has this happened before?" Bruce tilts his head, "Them failing, I mean?"

Clint signs quickly at me.

"He says it's only happened once before, on an early mission. He got tossed in a lake, almost electrocuted himself."

 _Electricity and water don't mix,_ I sign at him, _dummy._

 _Wasn't my fault,_ he insists, _I didn't have much choice._

I roll my eyes and curl into him, both of us relaxing as we slowly nod off to the snores filling the room.

I tap him on the shoulder just before we are asleep completely. _Hey,_ I sign, _you okay?_

 _Yes,_ he signs, _you were right. About trusting my team._

I grin and softly kiss him. _I knew I was._

 _Show off._

 _Told you so, bird boy._

His breathing eventually evens out, followed by mine, and I fall asleep with a smile on my face, Clint's head on my shoulder, and his hand linked with mine.


	8. Numbers

**This happens between Iron Beta and Iron Beta 2.**

* * *

A lot of people think that my dad and I have ADHD. Or ADD. Or some other hyperactive disorder.

We don't, by the way.

We just get hooked on ideas.

Although, I have to admit, I do act slightly ADHD. Like in certain situations, only numbers make sense to me. Because math _always_ makes sense, screw English.

Like this one time in Portugal, during the year-long Loki hunt.

* * *

Steve's POV

"Are we _sure_ Loki is here?" Taylor sighs as she swipes across another holographic map floating in front of us.

"Have we ever been sure before?" I respond wearily as I study my own paper map.

"I suppose not," she mumbles.

"We have more evidence this time." Natasha points out.

"Yes," Tony nods, " _one_ necklace like the one on the Zygones. One necklace. Which could belong to any museum anywhere."

"Quit being cynical." I scold. "We didn't have much else to go on."

"And, if it doesn't pan out to anything, at least we got to see Portugal." Bruce adds.

Everyone just shrugs, grumbles slightly, and turns back to their respective maps or chart.

"Steve," Taylor waves me over, "come look at this."

I lean over her shoulder as she enlarges a screen, a piece of evidence.

"It's a page," she explains, "from an old journal that's in a small history heritage thing here. It talks about a flying snake, like the Leviathans from Manhattan."

"Those were Chitauri though." I point out.

"Still." she shrugs. "Jarvis, pull up the lines I'm talking about."

The paper zooms in, and about a paragraph of text fills the screen.

" _Cinco de janeiro de 1854._

 _Não existem serpentes voadoras, diário? Porque hoje eu vi uma grande serpente voadora._

 _Eu estava no meu caminho para o mercado , quando ouvi um rugido, muito parecido com um leão. Eu vi a cobra voando para fora de um grande buraco negro. Ele estava rugindo , mas com uma borda metálica…"_

"Right." I blink at the screen. "Anyone speak Portuguese?"

Natasha, Bruce, and Clint all admit to being about half fluent.

"Alright then. Jarvis?" Taylor calls. "Translation please."

The screen blinks, then reappears, readable this time.

" _Five of January 1854._

 _There are no flying serpents, diary? Because today I saw a great flying serpent._

 _I was on my way to the market when I heard a roar, much like a lion. I saw the snake flying out of a big black hole. He was roaring, but with a metallic edge..."_

"1845?" Bruce speaks up. "That's…old."

"We're dealing with immortal beings here." Taylor points out.

"True." he shrugs.

I lean back against one of the tables we had set up in the small room we were currently holed up in. "So," I muse, "an ancient sighting of a big snake. Natasha, can you get these people on the phone? Try and find out who this journal belonged to."

Natasha gives a sharp nod, looks over Taylor's shoulder as she pulls up a phone number, and then taps her phone a few times and wanders away from the rest of us.

"What if this is Loki?" Clint looks at me, eyebrows raised.

"Then we look for more supernatural phenomena and try and create a trail, a pattern."

"Why would he be here?" Tony wonders out loud, protesting our strange looks. "What? This is a small country. Coastal. Near Spain. Loki, or the modern one we are familiar with, likes buildups and then big city battles. Stuttgart then Manhattan, Paris then London. Even the capital of Portugal, Libson, is not that big. Not on his previous scale, anyways. It makes no sense for Loki to be here."

"Well then it's a good thing he isn't." Natasha sighs, walking back over to us. "That was the owner of the historical center. The writer of that journal, Assunção de Bárbara, was proved to be insane not even half a month after writing this. She died on February 3rd, 1845."

"Did anyone else report anything?"

Natasha shakes her head.

"So we have nothing." We all snap our attention towards Taylor, who leaning against a wall, arms and ankles crossed. "We have _nothing._ " She repeats sullenly, but we can all see her eyes steadily darkening.

"We have been searching for months. _Months._ And we have nothing. Nothing to show for it. Our only leads are long dead, or insane like this chick, or both, and we haven't gotten anywhere. We aren't even on step one, more step -2.46. I've done this before, this searching game, and I can't do it again. You don't know what it's like, oh _god_ you don't know. It's horrible, please, _please_ , we can't do this. Why couldn't Loki have used math? Numbers make sense, they don't trick you, they don't lie to you, not like words, like humans, make you think one thing but mean another. Right now that's all we have, words, words of a crazy person, and we. Have. _**NOTHING!"**_

Her voice steadily rose during her ramble/rant, and the last word was a scream, maybe a roar, as she lashes out in a blur of black and sends a metal fist into the wall behind her, punching through with a metallic smack and the crackle of breaking plaster.

We all jump back at her outburst as she slides slowly down the wall, pulling her knees up, folding her arms on top of them, and burying her head in her arms, slowly rocking side to side.

Tony slowly steps forward, the expert in dealing with his daughter. He crouches down about a foot in front of her, being careful never to touch her.

"Is it a code silver?" I hiss at him.

He shakes his head. "This isn't panic," he whispers, "just a garden variety meltdown. Frustration, not fear."

"Taylor," he calls softly, "Fibonacci."

I blink at him in surprise, as do most of the team, but Bruce's eyes light up and Taylor freezes in her rocking. "Where?"

"16."

"987."

"Good, good." he nods, and I'm still confused, "Plus 510."

"1597."

He nods again. "1597 + 987?"

"2584."

"Now 2584 + 1597."

"4181."

"Okay, okay, good, now come on, you can finish it."

"6765, 10946, 17711, 28657." she rambles off, and with each number her voice became a little less shaky, and by now her eyes were peeking over her arms, just visible.

"There we are," Tony nods. "Now, quadratic formula."

"Negative B plus or minus the square root of B squared minus 4 times A and C, all divided by 2 times A." she recites, her calculator brain slowly restarting.

I'm still clueless.

"Right. Now, Compound interest?"

" _A_ equal _p_ , parentheses 1 plus _r_ over _n_ to the _n_ times _t_ power."

"Good. You okay now?"

"Yes." she starts uncurling herself. "Thanks."

"No problem." he reassures her. "You can look up some equations on the plane later. I know your teachers will love you for it."

"Okay," I whisper slowly, "who just understood a word of what was just said?"

Taylor, Tony, and Bruce all raise their hands. Bruce congratulates Tony on his quick thinking after checking Taylor over with a careful eye, and then we're all back to our maps like nothing happened.

Except it did, so I look to Bruce for explanation.

"Starks are geniuses." he explains. "You understand that, right?"

"Yeah," I nod, "they only brag about it 24 hours a day, seven day a week."

"No, Steve, you don't get it; they really _are_ brilliant. It's more than just a title, a bragging right. Tony is 39 points smarter than Einstein – do you know who that is?"

"A really smart guy in Germany, he did something with relativity and the speed of light?"

"Yes, yes. Now, take his brain and add about 25%."

"Wow." I whisper.

"Now put that into those two heads over there."

"Um…"

"Yeah," Bruce nods with slight awe, "and they call me a genius."

"Okay." I stutter, still taking in this new revelation. "Tony said it wasn't a Code Silver. Then what was that?"

"That was that huge genius brain shutting down."

" _Shutting down?!_ Like brain damage, or-"

"No, no, no!" Bruce quickly backpedals. "Not physically. I'm pretty sure their brains run on ten to fifteen different levels simultaneously, and sometimes those levels collapse. Tony, of course, can kick start her mind back into gear by feeding her simple math…simple for them, anyways."

I suck a slow breath in to absorb this. "Okay, so _what_ was it?"

"That was Taylor reciting the Fibonacci sequence."

"She asked where?"

"Where to start. Tony said the sixteenth number, or 987. Taylor's brain automatically recited up to number….23, I think."

"Automatically? Like, on its own?"

"Yep. Pretty sure she could to that for a few years now."

"I swear I will never understand the modern world." I groan.

"Well," he smirks, "they don't exactly make it easy."

I groan again. "Come on, let's…just get back to the maps. I need to focus on the task at hand."

* * *

 **Right. So…minor meltdown, but all's ok.**

 **An explanation for the brain sizes, if you don't get that:**

 **Einstein had a 160 IQ. If you've read Iron Beta 3, you'd know that Tony and Taylor have 199 and 198 IQ's, respectively.**

 **160/4 = 40**

 **160 (Einstien) + a quarter of that (40) = 200 (about Tony's IQ).**

 **Get it? If not, PM me with any other questions.**


	9. Flu

Flu

Natasha's POV

"Good morning Tony."

"Wha'? Oh. It's morning?" he yawns as he pushes a coffee mug at me.

"Yes, genius, it is." I sigh as I grab a box of cereal and the jug of milk.

"Oh – ah- _choo_!"

"Bless you." I blink at him as he grabs a paper towel to wipe his nose. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," he waves me off, "just dust."

"If you say so." I shrug and return to my breakfast.

Steve is the next one up, with a mumbled "Mornin'", bedhead like a porcupine, and a beeline towards the coffee machine. "What are you two doing today?"

"Good morning, Captain Sunshine." Tony yawns. "I have a business meeting at f-four-" the last word, and subsequently the sentence, were cut off with a harsh coughing fit.

"Are you okay, Tony?" Steve asks with a scrunched brow.

"Yeah," he gasps, "like I told Spidey, it's just-"

"Yeah, I don't think it's dust, Tony." I cut him off loudly. He opens his mouth to argue, but any response is cut off by Taylor shuffling into the kitchen.

"Morning, Tay – whoa." I trail off as I get a good look at Tony's daughter.

Her hair is sticking up every which way, her eyes are watering with bags and dark spots underneath them, and the light is reflecting off a thin sheen of sweat coating her skin.

"Whoa." Steve echoes me in a whisper as Taylor trudges towards the table, collapsing into a seat and setting her forehead in the table.

"Taylor," Tony whispers, "are you-"

"Shhh." Taylor hisses, slightly feral, at us. "Too loud. Head hurtsssss…"

Tony's face immediately softens as he scoops up his daughter and half carries her over to a couch, draping an afghan over her back as she face plants. "Get some rest, okay? Temperature check in an hour. I'll go find the soup."

 _What is it?_ I mouth at him from the bar/island overlooking the entire living room.

 _Flu season,_ he replies silently as he creeps away.

"You cook soup?" Steve whispers as soon as Tony rejoins us.

He snorts softly and quirks an eyebrow. "Canned goods, Capsicle."

I roll my eyes at him. "I'll go get meds, vitamins, and orange juice later, for the both of you."

"Sice when are you a nursemaid?"

I snarl at Tony. "I can still kill you in your sleep."

 **A~A~A**

By the time I return – with seven bottles of Advil, pain pills, and a few bottles of liquid cold medicine - the sickness that had snared Taylor had spread to the rest of the team.

Clint was splayed on one of the recliners, fast asleep with his hair sweat-plastered to his forehead and surrounded by tissues. Bruce was looking less affected, probably because of his alter ego, but still fast asleep and snoring on an armchair. Even Steve, Mr. Super Serum, was half-reading a book with bleary, half-lidded eyes.

Tony was rubbing circles into Taylor's back and holding a trash can as she heaved, now half on, half off the couch, blanket laying rumpled on the floor.

He looks up as the elevator dings, lifting Taylor back onto the couch before weaving his way through the sick occupants of the room and helping me sort through the bottles in the bag.

"Since you seem to be the healthiest person in the room," I glance at him, "how's everyone else doing?"

He shrugs and hands me a surgical mask he swiped from beneath the bar, right next to the whiskey. "Well they aren't _good_. Put this on unless you want to get…whatever this is. I do not want to have to deal with a sick Black Widow."

I nod and snap the mask over my ears. "You really don't. What could medicine does Taylor take?"

"For this? Mucinex."

"Great. Here," I slide a bottle at him, "and I brought Vicks too."

"Vapor rub?"

I nod, fishing more items out of the bag. "And tissues too. I think I brought Walgreens' entire inventory of tissues."

Tony nods, but one of the invalids moans before he can say anything. He weaves his way back through towards Clint and waves for me to toss him a box of tissues.

He catches the box expertly and pops a thermometer between the archer's lips, and said archer barely moans again before rolling onto his side and beginning to snore again.

"And you say I'm a nursemaid?" I snort as I check on the tougher two of the bunch, Bruce and Steve, to see how badly they're being affected by this sudden virus.

Bruce's temperature is reading 99.6, a normal level for him, and his mucus-induced snore is quieter than Clint's – who sounds like a bear on a freight train – so I assume his big, green, angry counterpart is doing a decent job at scaring away most of the germs.

Steve is only breathing a little heavier than normal with sporadic snorts, so I gently ease the novel out of his hands, slip a scrap of paper between the pages, and pull fluffy blanket over his torso.

"All okay on the germ resistant front?" Tony hisses as I tiptoe back to the island.

"Yeah. And on the normal side?"

"Snot. Snot everywhere," he shudders dramatically, "but everyone's sleeping, however restlessly. Taylor's the only one expelling stomach contents."

I nod, keeping an eye on the sleeping company in the room, as a though occurs. "Is this what you did when she was little?"

"Taylor?" he shrugs. "Yeah, I guess. I would set up a couch or armchair in the lab and keep the music and general noise down. Jarvis was a built in medicine reminder."

" _I am so glad you appreciate my talents, sir."_ a slightly sarcastic voice from the ceiling buts in.

"No problem, J."

"You just couldn't tear yourself out of the lab, could you?" I tease.

"Hey!" he defends. "She liked it down there. And plus, it was more educational than lying up here watching daytime TV."

"True." I shrug. "You know, you've been playing the nursemaid game a lot longer than me."

He quirks an eyebrow. "How long have you been taking care of people?"

I shrug, slightly self-conscious. "Since I found people to take care of."

Tony looks oddly thoughtful as he replies. "Same here."

I give him a small half smile, which he returns.

The room goes silent, and we bask in the opportunity to relax.

Until Taylor starts heaving again.

And Clint moans.


	10. Glasses

I wake up with a groan and flop over onto my stomach, covering my head with a pillow.

 _Why does the sun have to rise so early?_

" _Good morning, ma'am. It is Saturday the 4_ _th_ _, 8:00 am. The temperature outside is 85 degrees Farenhiet, winds of 3 miles per hour-"_

"Yeah, morning J." I yawn, still feeling the sore muscles from yesterday's mission.

It was a case of dust mites taking over an area near Maryland, emphasis on the _dust_. Poor Baltimore looked white with a heavy coating of dust particles, almost like snow.

I know, unrealistic. But realistic isn't really in my vocabulary anymore, not after what I've seen.

So anyways, back to the dust. It clogged the joints of the suits, so I aborted and grabbed my bow and took up a ground position. I really should have worn goggles of some sort, though, because the dust coated my eyes and it _burned._

Even after defeating the dust mites, we had to wait for the rest of the dust to clear. That meant we didn't get home until around 12:30 in the morning, and then we had to get out of our combat gear and disarm ourselves. So I didn't get to bed until around 1:30 am.

I roll lazily out of bed and head for the en-suite bathroom, grabbing an old t-shirt and a pair of jeans on my way.

I spend a good amount of time simply letting the hot water rinse off the copious amounts of dust that had gathered in every nook, cranny, and pore of my body, then going back over again with soap.

"Jarvis," I call once I emerge, "remind me to change my sheets later. They are looking rather grey, don't you think?"

" _Indeed, Miss Stark. Although, one should probably expect that after the wild night last night."_

"When did the sarcasm coding get put in?" I grumble good-naturedly as I pull my t-shirt over my head and head out the door and towards breakfast.

Steve is the only one up, being the naturally early riser that he is, so I don't bother with being quiet as I bound for the pantry."Good morning, Steve."

"I'm surprised to see you awake, Taylor, how'd – hey, you look different."

I frown at him. "Do I still have dust on my face? I would've thought the half-hour shower would have fixed that."

"What? No. Just," he offers me a silver pan, "here. Look for yourself."

I only have to study myself for a second before I realize what he's talking about. I groan, but any of my words were cut off by Bruce stumbling downstairs, still half asleep.

"Mornin', guys...Taylor?" he blinks at me.

"Yes, Bruce?" I sigh wearily, already knowing what he was going to ask about.

"Since when do you wear glasses?"

I close my eyes and slide the frames off my nose, turning them carefully in my hands to look at the light reflecting off the lenses.

My glasses, which I don't wear too often, have thick, black, wire frames, slightly squared lenses, and moderately thick lenses.

I hate them.

"I must have put them on as a reflex this morning." I explain, finally looking up at Bruce. "I normally wear contacts, but after yesterday's mission…"

"The dust got in your eyes and your contacts fell out." Natasha finishes, catching the tail end of the sentence as she strides into the room. "Nice glasses."

"Thanks, glad you like them." I slide them back on, finishing my sentence in a tone so low not even Steve can hear it. "That makes one of us."

My dad is the next into the kitchen; he, unlike the others, just looks at me, raises an eyebrow, and sips his coffee. "You had to break those out, huh?"

"Not by _choice_." I whine. "My contacts shriveled up because of the dust."

He shrugs, tells me "I'll order extras,", and refills his mug.

"Hey guys, whaaaaaahhhhh…" Clint enters the kitchen, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He trails off as he sees me, his jaw hitting the floor as he does a double take.

My dad holds up a hand and begins ticking off fingers. "Five, four, three, two…"

 _SLAM!_

Clint misses the archway opening to the hallway by a good six inches, instead walking directly into a wall.

"Clint?" I call, sliding my glasses up my nose as he stands, cupping his nose. "You okay?"

"What? I…ah, yeah, y-yeah…" he blinks at me, stunned.

I blink back at him.

He blinks.

I blink.

He blinks.

"Okay, this is officially weird." Natasha breaks the silence. "It's simple, people, honestly. Clint has a glasses kink, Taylor has glasses. There, problem solved." She claps like all is now well, causing Clint and I to glare.

I slide my glasses back up my nose and peck him on the cheek. "You actually _like_ them?"

He looks at me, shocked. "Like them? _Like_ them?! Currently, I'm pretty sure they're the best thing that's occurred to mankind. Seriously, I really-"

"Keep it PG, Birdbrain!" my dad cuts in, glaring at my boyfriend, who has the decency to look sheepish.

"Why _don't_ you like them, Taylor?" Bruce wonders between bites of toast and sips of tea.

" _Because_ ," I whine, "they make me look all dorky. I'm supposed to look like an all-powerful, genius VP that can bend numbers and negotiators to her will, not some acne-infested geek with braces and thick glasses."

"For the record," Clint interrupts, "I'm a gigantic fan of the dorky look."

"You don't need to be all-powerful 100% of the time." Natasha points out. "You can wear the glasses here, at home."

"Glasses aren't anything to be ashamed of." Bruce cuts in. "I wear some. Mainly because contacts make me look old, but still. And beyond that, are you forgetting that before you were a VP of a Fortune 500 company, you _were_ a dorky teenager with acne? In fact, you still are. I mean, not the acne, but you're as dorky and geeky as they come."

"Why, thank you Bruce," I drawl, "raise my confidence a little, why don't you?"

Bruce just blushes and stammers an apology.

"But seriously." Steve adds. "You've got nothing to hide when it comes to appearances. If there should be one place we can all be comfortable it should be here."

"Well, here above the fourth floor. Because those are the business floors, and nobody – I swear, _nobody_ – is comfortable there." I add with a shrug.

The rest of the room hesitantly nods its agreement.

Steve clears his throat. "Anyways, as I was saying…it's okay to wear those here if you want. No pressure."

I run uneasy fingers along the sides of the glasses. They have points, and contacts _do_ get really uncomfortable…

"Fine. I'll leave them on until I get new contacts, okay? And can we find a way for me to never leave the house till then?"

Steve nods as I hop out of my seat, slide my dishes into the sink, and head down to the lab to either work on paperwork or my latest idea or ideas.

Right before I get out of earshot, however, I can hear Clint asking my dad to delay the contact orders.

I suppose that, while I have them on, I can use my glasses to my advantage.


	11. In Memoriam

Once a year, something big happens.

It's not a birthday, or the anniversary of someone's death.

(Well, technically it is, a whole bunch of people died).

But anyways, it's not focused on death, not for me.

It's the anniversary of a battle.

 _The_ Battle.

When the world gained six – later seven – of the best of the best, better than any police force and most militias.

Manhattan also gave me more people to like, to trust, and truly gave me my first friends that weren't on my dad's payroll. It's sad, I know.

But at the same time, I had to watch from the Hellicarrier as my dad flew into a wormhole with a missile. I had to answer his call. I had to watch him as he thought he would die.

And I had to deal with that.

But back to the anniversary.

The seven of us see it in different ways, each one of us. Steve sees all the people that died, my dad remembers the wormhole, Clint and Thor remember Loki very differently, Natasha remembers getting the news about Clint, and Bruce remembers finally meeting people that aren't afraid of accepting him _and_ the Other Guy.

Me? I remember the unsung heroes, like myself. People like Coulson, Hill, and a hell of a lot of police officers.

We all visit the memorial each year, and the fifth anniversary was a rainy Tuesday.

.

"Steve! Dad says we're leaving in ten, with or without you!" I shout at the ceiling.

" _Captain Rogers says he will be ready in five minutes, ma'am."_ Jarvis politely relays back.

"Okay." I shrug and lean back against the counter, playing with the edge of my purple hoodie. I'm dressed casually today in an old zippered hoodie, worn jeans, and a pair of black Nikes.

"Taylor!" Clint pokes his head into the room. "Is Cap almost ready?"

"Yeah, he said he'd be ready in five."

"I'm here!" Clint and I turn to see Steve barrel out of the stairwell, panting just slightly. "Sorry."

"It's okay, let's just go." Clint urges, motioning us out the door. "Tony's getting impatient."

"Why? It's not like the memorial is going anywhere."

Clint shrugs. "How should I know? He's _your_ dad."

I just roll my eyes and lead the way to the elevator, pressing the button for the garage. Once the elevator doors open again, the three of us walk out to wait by our respective vehicles.

I'm riding my motorcycle, my dad and Bruce are in one car, Clint is with Natasha in a second car, Steve is on his motorcycle, and Thor promises to fly above the clouds.

As I'm unlocking the storage area/elevator to the lab where I keep my speedster, I have time to reflect that we'll be arriving at the memorial in almost the same way as we did five years ago, except for the fact that I'm in person this time.

I slip on my helmet, activating the holoscreen visor as I follow Steve out of the garage at a reasonable speed, nowhere near my top speed.

"Jarvis, what's my ETA?"

" _Ten minutes, ma'am, with according for traffic."_

"Right. Keep an eye on Steve." I command as I follow the route each us of know by heart, Steve in front of me, Thor above my head, and two cars lined up behind me. "Not that you need to, of course."

True to Jarvis' word, I arrive at the memorial in about ten minutes, pulling up and parking next to Steve as the cars find various parking spaces.

The memorial is located in Central Park, in the big circle area where we saw Loki and Thor off after everything was said and done.

I hop off my bike and tuck my helmet under the seat, shoving my hands in my pockets as I approach the metal monstrosity, once shining bronze but now slightly tarnished.

It depicts the six main Avengers standing back to back in a circle. Captain America faces north, looking up slightly with shield on his arm and ready to strike. To his right, Iron Man stands at full height, chest puffed out and looking more Merchant of Death than Tony Stark.

I can do that to, use my words to threaten, but that's another story involving a certain General.

Anyways, next in the circle is a snarling Hulk, slightly crouched with his fists clenched. Hawkeye is next, and you can see his focus even as a statue. He stands with his bow drawn, and arrow notched and aimed at an unseen enemy. Thor stands to his right, hammer poised and a dead serious look on his face. Black Widow completes the circle, both her guns loaded and a sly, narrow-eyed look on her face.

The empty space in the middle of the circle contains a base for a six-foot spire, topped by a cube resting on a corner. The intricate engravings on the cube are meant to represent the energy inside the Tesseract, the fine lines on its surface.

A quote rings the pedestal the heroes are on, and it's the more PG version of our unofficial motto – _'If we can't save the earth, you can be sure we'll avenge it'_ – in fancy script. Several figures are at the base of the pedestal, including a kneeling, shackled, and muffled Loki beneath Cap, a Coulson statue I made facing south, and even an Iron Beta facing east.

I'm in a crouch with one fist on the ground, in what some call an 'Iron Man pose'. There's a quiver on my back to differentiate me from my dad, and I appreciate the thought even if I still haven't found a realistic solution to wearing my quiver with my suit. My chest is raised slightly to show my femininity, though, although not majorly.

The builders told me they would have put me in the main circle, but they didn't know I even _existed_ until after that part was built, so they added me to the base.

The memorial is surrounded by about two feet of manicured lawn and a velvet rope, but the six of us quickly duck under the rope and head to our usual spots of reflection.

Steve stares up at the Tesseract, my dad cocks his head at his big bronze double, Clint stands over Loki in triumph, Bruce traces the quote with his fingers, Natasha leans against the base and people watches, and Thor just watches quietly.

I head over to the statue of Coulson, the one it took me a week to make after I went MIA for a week and a half at hearing the news of his 'death'. I run a hand along his folded arms, finger his tie knot, and smirk at the ever present cards barely sticking out of his back pocket.

I remember the easy likeableness and support he gave during Stane's mess.

I finger the slim dagger he gave me while calling me a more likeable version of my dad, being one of the few people to recognize my potential.

I remember the grief when my dad told me he was gone, a martyr, and the thirst for revenge that kept me cheering as I watched the battle.

I remember the fuming anger directed towards Fury when I discovered the lies, the fake martyrdom Coulson was unknowingly and unwillingly forced into.

Yes, I know he returned seemingly from the dead.

No, that does not make the emotions any easier. I never does.

"Taylor?"

I startle and spin to face my dad, who standing casually behind me, his hands in the pockets of his own jacket.

"Are you ready to head home? Phil, the real, live, breathing version is getting a dinner ready as we speak. I hear he's cooking pork chops."

I raise an eyebrow. "Are you sure? He never does that. What's next, letting you ride in his precious car?"

"Not in a million years," Dad laughs, slinging an arm around my shoulders as we make our way back to my bike.

I laugh along with him, threading one arm around his back and stuffing the other hand back into my pocket. "Five years, huh."

It's a statement, not a question, but my dad still responds with a heavy sigh. "Yeah. Five long, battle filled years."

"Feeling old yet?"

"Not until the day you marry Clint will I feel a day over thirty."

"That's rich, Mr. Mid-Forties."

"Middle aged!"

I laugh as he ruffles my hair and kisses my forehead, stepping back to let me get on my bike. "See you at home."

"Yeah you will. I'm not missing Coulson's pork chops if Chitauri attack again. Let Spiderman deal with them."

"He needs the experience anyways."

"I was doing so much more at his age. See you in ten."

"Bye."


	12. M-I-A in M-A-I-N-E

" _Coulson didn't make it."_

The words ring in my head as I sit in a desolate, dark lab at 2 am, twirling a dagger in and out of my fingers.

" _I'm sorry, Taylor, Coulson is gone."_

Coulson had given me the dagger I was holding when we first met at the 'shutting down the weapons division' press conference, before I was on a team of heroes and back when my biggest worry was the PR department.

" _Coulson didn't make it."_

Back when he was _alive._

" _Coulson is gone."_

I gnash my teeth as I stare holes in the dagger, wiping the blade clean on the sleeve of my sweatshirt. It's an extremely thin blade, mainly for 'cloak-and-dagger' type operations or throwing at stuff or people. It's got a tempered steel hilt and a minimal rubber grip running in the dips where the fingers go, it was made to be used by nimble, fast hands.

" _Coulson didn't make it…"_

He was one of the few who know I even existed.

He believed in me.

" _Taylor, Coulson is gone."_

He was my friend.

"… _gone…"_

Just generally likeable, I think.

"… _didn't make it…"_

Seriously, not even my dad truly hated Coulson. Who hated Coulson?

…Loki, apparently.

" _Gone, he didn't make it, he's gone, didn't make it, gone…"_

"STOP IT!" I jump out of my chair and flick the dagger towards the far wall, watching as it sticks itself in a small crack in the concrete wall.

I run a hand through my hair and begin to pace, my breathing shortening as I begin to feel slightly claustrophobic.

I needed to get away.

 _Pick a state, any state, Taylor._

"Jarvis, look up small places in….hmmm….Maine. As north as possible, please."

" _One of the most northern towns in Maine is Allagash, population 239. However, ma'am, I must warn you, it is technically part of Canada, you would do good to bring your passport."_

"Alright." I begin walking towards the door, slipping my knife into my back pocket along the way. "Print out a passport then, we're going to Maine. Cue up Beta I."

Jarvis consents and ten minutes later I have a passport my hand and I'm standing out on the landing platform, waiting for my suit. "Jarvis," I command as the assembly bots start to whir around me, "take off as quietly as possible, and don't go fast until we get out of the city. Keep above cloud cover. Oh, and be sure to drop me off the grid."

" _How far off, ma'am?"_

"All the way. Just you and me, because I'm bringing my Jarvis-only earpiece. I'm leaving my phone here and the only reason I'm coming back before next week is if we get a mission that I absolutely need to be there for."

" _Understood, ma'am. The suit is ready."_

I quickly scribble a note for my dad, depositing it on the table next to my phone before calling the suit and letting it encase me.

I take off with my boots at a low hum, blending in with the nighttime noise of the city as I slip into the early morning sky and start flying north.

 **A~A~A**

3 day later, I'm technically in Canada, and I have dyed blonde hair and brown eyes, and my name is Maria Esmeralda Ramone.

And all I'm doing is sitting on the steps of the tiny general store sipping ginger-ale out of an old fashioned bottle.

And I've essentially turned off all the emotion centers in my brain.

I've blocked them, anyways.

I'm doing, or at least trying to do, what I do best: think logically. About a human death.

So, basics: who was Phillip J. Coulson?

Well, a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, first and foremost.

He always wore a suit and tie. Even in 90 degree, New Mexico heat.

He dated a cellist in Portland for a while, but he has – _had,_ dang it - no significant other.

He was also my friend.

He called me, and I quote, 'a more likeable, agreeable version of my dad'.

He may have also been a little insane.

What sane adult gives a thirteen year old girl a knife upon first meeting?

And fanboys?

And believes in heroes?

Actually, I'm kind of glad for that last one.

He sort of saved the world, if you think about it. Because _he_ rallied the Avengers, and then _we_ saved mankind as we know it.

So, indirectly, Phil Coulson saved the world.

And the only reason he's dead is because he's a stupid, brave, self-sacrificing idiot of a hero, and I can't decide if I would hug him or slap him for that.

Probably neither, because guess what, he's _dead_.

Dead, cold, and stiff. There isn't even a grave, because S.H.I.E.L.D. did…something….with the body, I don't know.

And that's when is starts sinking in.

I'm never going to see that weird half-smirk thing he does, or that eyebrow that climbs his forehead whenever my dad says or does half the things he says or does.

Because of one man…er, god…that stabbed him, straight through the heart.

"Bud' ty proklyat , Loki," I snarl, "Chert vas v ad." I drain the last of the ginger ale, tossing it in the nearest trashcan before getting up and walking towards the bushes on a dead end road where I locked up my suit.

"Jarvis," I whisper, not moving my lips as I poke my ear, "remind me to make a statue or something of him."

" _I will, ma'am."_

I quickly return to my suit pack and my small pouch for a few other things. I pull a pad and pencil out of my pouch and start sketching ideas for a statue to add to the monument they're building back in Manhattan, a statue to commemorate the one person that _did not need to die._

It may take a while, but you can't rush perfection.

Good thing I've got four more days in solidarity under my belt.

 **A~A~A**

When my boots finally touch down onto the landing pad again, seven days after I left, it's early morning again, around 3am.

I try to slip back into the lab unnoticed, but it doesn't quite work that way.

"Welcome home."

I jump and stare at my dad, but he hasn't looked up from the project he's currently working on. "Uh, hi…?"

"I'm not mad." He looks up at me. "I understand. I probably would've done the same thing if I hadn't wanted to be here when you got back. So where did you end up?"

I shrug. "Somewhere," I mumble vaguely.

My dad just hums. "Just, ah, next time, if there is one, would you mind at least taking a tracker chip with you?"

I glance over to the table where my phone is still sitting. "Sure. Anyone try and take over the world while I was gone?"

He shakes his head. "Nope, all was quiet. Well, except for the worried superheroes. Jarvis, tell the others Taylor's back in the morning."

Jarvis complies as I pull out my pad from my pouch. "I have ideas."

"For…?"

"A statue."

My dad just gives me a look before nodding towards my table. "How long will that take?"

"I don't know, does it matter?"

"Of course not. All-nighters are practically a trademark by now."

I grin and laugh as I pull my toolbox and some sheet metal out, drawing some holograms over.

 _Welcome home indeed,_ I think.

First rule of grieving Phil?

We don't mention that Taylor went MIA for a week to do so.


	13. Insomnia

Steve's POV

I groan into my pillow and punch it into shape, flipping over onto my back again.

Nope.

I roll back over and kick off my blankets.

Still no comfort. It's official; I am not getting any sleep tonight. Or at least none right now.

I untangle myself from the last of my sheets and rub a hand over my face as I glance at the alarm clock.

3:34 am.

I sigh and sit up, stretching and yawning as I run a hand through my hair.

I ultimately decide to make my way down to the kitchen, meaning to grab a glass of warm milk and try and fall asleep on one of the bigger couches.

I do a quick once-over of my appearance, making sure I have pants on and my shirt isn't too stained. I'm not expecting company; Clint and Natasha were on a mission and not due back for another week, Tony was their tech guy, Bruce sleeps okay if Betty's in the Tower, and Thor seldom has nightmares.

Once my feet hit the heated tiles of my destination, however, it quickly becomes apparent that I'm not the only one up.

Taylor's hunched over the kitchen island/bar, a mug in hand, glasses perched on her nose, and a book spread on the countertop beneath her.

I watch her for a second before she sees me. She's in a t-shirt and a pair of yoga pants, I think they're called. Her mug is filled with a light brown liquid, but I can't smell coffee. That means she must not be trying to stay awake, she just can't do anything else.

"Taylor?"

She makes a startled squealing noise, a bit like a horse's whinny, as she shoves her glasses up on her nose and blinks owlishly at me. "Steve! I didn't hear you come in."

I shrug. "I didn't expect you to be here."

She nods and shifts her position on the couch.

I eye her mug. "What are you drinking?"

"Hot chocolate with whip cream melted in it and a splash of caramel." She blushes. "Kind of a guilty pleasure. Want some?"

I smile shyly. "If it's not too much trouble."

She marks her place in her book and closes it. "No trouble at all."

I watch her as she rummages through the pantry. "Can't sleep?"

"Nah." She puts a box of something on the counter. "I mean, I'm used to my dad being gone, but then I go haunt the vents above Clint's room. But I have no hope of getting a wink of sleep if they're both gone."

"Like now."

"Like now." She nods. "I tried, but I ended up here. You?"

I play with my thumbs. "Just generic insomnia, I guess. Plus I'm always jumpy when one of us leaves the Tower for more than a few days."

She grins at me as she pours milk in a pan on the stove. "Captain's instincts?"

I nod. "Something like that."

She gives me an understanding look as she pours cocoa powder into the pan and begins stirring it slowly.

"How'd you learn to make that?" I motion towards her mug.

She looks thoughtful as she pours the cocoa into a mug. "I watched as my dad made it for me. I think he learned it from his mom. Family recipe or something."

I nod as she pulls the whipped cream out of the fridge and mixes it into the mug. "Reminds me of what my mom used to make. I got cold a lot, with how skinny I was."

She pauses with the caramel sauce bottle hovering over the cup. "I'm not dredging up any bad memories, am I?"

I chuckle quietly. "No, don't worry about it. Hers had more cinnamon, a little less sweet."

She grins, relieved, as she sides me the mug of steaming hot light brown liquid. I take a cautious sip as she returns to the couch. "This is good!"

She blushes slightly. "Thank you, Steve."

"The only time I've seen you blush this much was when Clint was doing that calendar thing." I raise an eyebrow. "Is this a dark secret or something?"

"No," she laughs. "Nothing like that. I've made it for Clint, Bruce, Thor one time…insomniacs." She explains. "It's just…" she stares at her hands. "It's not hard, metal, or covered in oil. It's actually slightly fluffy and sweet. "

"Not what people would expect from you?" I offer.

"Yeah. But I'm proud of it."

I nod. "Everyone's got something like that. I can't speak for anyone else, but…I was going to go to art school."

She raises her eyebrows. "Really?"

"Really."

"I mean, I knew you liked drawing, but I've never seen your work or anything." She shrugs apologetically.

Now I'm the one blushing. "I've been told I'm pretty good."

"And I know you are." She smiles smugly. "And I'm a Stark, I'm always right."

I roll my eyes. "Are you going to sleep anytime soon?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Are you?"

"No."

"The no. Misery loves company and I literally cannot sleep with either my dad or Clint in the tower."

"So you're just not going to sleep for another week?"

"No, Jarvis knows where the sleeping pills are if necessary. But it's only been a few days and I found a new book on aerial dogfights."

"I didn't know Starks knew what books were."

She snorts. "How did you think we learned before computers? Plus, this helps in combat. I love doing aerial tricks in my suits. I've become really good at evasion, if I do say so myself."

"That's good." I shift awkwardly. "So…"

She drains the last of her mug and motions me over, flicking on the TV. "I think they're showing an original version of King Kong. I've always wanted to see what a movie was like without CGI."

"CGI?" I question, coming over to one of the armchairs.

"Computer generated imagery." She says simply. "It's…a computer made movies and video games. I'll explain some other time if you remind me. Now, bigger details; do you want popcorn?"

I nod. "Family recipe?" I tease gently.

"Nope!" she fires back. "Straight from the bag!"

I sigh dramatically. "I suppose you can't have everything."

"Shut up and watch the movie, Steve."

* * *

 **Just a little platonic Steve-Taylor bonding over lack of sleep. Keyword: platonic. And if Taylor seemed OOC, that's a good thing in this piece.**


	14. Monster Hunter

"Okay, hold on, scrolling….alright, next it calls for two teaspoons of crushed garlic. Steve, where the hell are the teaspoons?"

Steve looks over his shoulder, vegetable knife pausing over the half-cut green onion. "Teaspoons or tablespoons?"

"Teaspoons. Although we'll probably need both eventually."

"Ah, check the top row of cabinets, third from my left."

I set my hands on my hips and stare up at the mentioned cabinet. "Why…never mind. Clint, can you reach that?"

"Sure thing." Clint stops shredding cheese to reach up and pluck the spoons down, setting them in front of me and I grin before beginning to rummage in the fridge for the garlic cloves.

The team and I had a rare day off, and we were trying something new. We were cooking. Some Italian lasagna type dish, with cheese, sauce, noodles, etc.

"Aha!" I dig the cloves out of the fridge and grab the mortar and pestle out from under my dad's hands. "Thank you."

I ignore his indignant protests as I crush the garlic, humming a tune under my breath. "Bruce, is that butter mixture almost ready?"

He nods. "Here you go."

I accept the small bowl and pour my garlic powder into it, whisking it lightly. "Garlic butter is almost done."

"How long do you think we'll have leftovers?"

I look at Bruce with a question on my eyebrows. "Well, if we make it for the seven of us, including Thor, Steve, and your portions, about a day or two. If we make it for the girls _and_ us, about four days, maybe. Why?"

He shrugs and returns to adjust the stove to make it boil water. "I was just thinking about how Betty and the girls are in New Zealand for that partnership with that lab until Sunday, I was wondering if we were going to have any left."

"We should," I shrug, "if our three big eaters don't devour it all."

Bruce grins. "It's not my fault."

"I would blame the Other Guy if you ever let him out." I give him an imploring look.

He looks indignant. "Hey, you-"

A cool but slightly rushed British tone interrupts the sounds of cooking in the room. _"Sir, ma'am, I feel that I must bring to your attention an altercation happening downstairs."_

My dad sighs. "Jarvis, if it's another girlfriend, I told you, twist the truth and divert her."

" _No, sir, anything of that sort."_ Jarvis pauses, an almost-sigh filling the empty space. _"It's an alert Romeo Mike Hotel."_

I stiffen as soon as the last words leave the speakers, quickly whirling to meet my dad's eyes.

"Jarvis," he says clearly and calmly as he sets down the tomato seed covered knife, "how long do we have?"

" _Approximately five minutes."_

"Are we going to use Plan A or B?"

"A." he nods at me before quickly turning and leaving the room, leaving me staring at a group of five other extremely confused and surprised superheroes.

"Taylor, what the-"

"Do you trust me? Us?"

"You and Tony?" Steve frowns. "Yes, of course, but-"

"Then can you please, _please_ just go wait in the back of the living room? Sit on the couches, I don't really care, just stay quiet and don't ask questions?" I have to almost beg. "Please."

Steve nods, still looking confused as the groups shuffles into the next room.

My dad rushes back into the room. "It's all set up."

"Even the-"

"Yes. Go get ready, T-minus 3 minutes."

I nod and rush out of the room, sprinting to my room and dressing in a tank top that showed my shoulder scars and pair of light business slacks and a pair of slacks, slipping a few sharp items into various folds.

I check my watch, one minute left, as I race back out to the living room. I meet my dad, who is dressed in a sharp, dark suit with a determined, dark gleam in his eyes.

"Ready."

"Good."

We both nod as I slip into the shadows behind my dad, watching my watch as all goes silent.

" _Ten seconds until the elevator reaches this floor, sir."_

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One…

The elevator dings open, shattering the silence as a man in uniform steps out, flanked by two muscular men in black on each side.

"General Ross, to what do I owe the displeasure?"

.

Natasha POV

" _General Ross, to what do I owe the displeasure?"_

I can feel Bruce stiffen somewhere behind me as I gaze steadily at the beady-eyed man with a bushy mustache that just entered the room.

He and Tony are looking at each other with equal measures of disgust and displeasure.

"Mr. Stark, or should I say Merchant of Death?"

"I think you're mistaken, General." Tony has a nonchalant, businesslike tone to his voice, but I can tell there's something more going on.

And I haven't seen Taylor since she ran to her room.

"I don't think I am, Stark. Sell any death lately?" Ross raises his eyebrows. "Or have you gone soft and gained a halo?"

Tony stays silent.

"Now, step aside Stark, we both know what I'm here for."

"What," Tony questions calmly, "or _who_?"

"You make friends with monsters now, Stark?"

"No," Tony snaps, "because the only monster here is you."

"Gone senile in your old age?" Ross questions smugly. "I _hunt_ monsters, Stark, not associate with them."

Tony laughs humorlessly. "I'm not the senile one here. Now," he clears his throat, "about your target."

"Yes?" Ross leans forward expectantly, an excited gleam in his eyes.

Tony leans forward as well, almost nose to nose with Ross. "When a snowball survives in hell."

Ross huffs and leans back. "Stark, you don't understand-"

"Oh, I understand _perfectly_ , Ross." Tony clasps his hands behind his back, a dark gleam in his eyes. "You know, you may have been right about the Merchant of Death, Monster Hunter. There are some things you never outgrow. Or get rid of. I have a few old…tools…lying around."

"Do you, now? And what are you going to do with them?"

"I think it very honorable to use them to protect what is mine."

Ross scoffs. "Your big guns don't scare me, Stark. You could never do it anyways."

"Couldn't I?" Tony raises a dangerous eyebrow. "Jarvis, I need stage 3."

Panels on the wall to the side of Stark, Ross, and the soldiers open to show five guns, each big, mean, and powerful.

Tony walks slowly in front of them, seemingly fighting to make a decision. "So many weapons, so little time…"

"Stark, hurry the hell up, will you?"

"Fine." Tony shrugs. "Rush me, why don't you?"

He plucks the fourth gun, a big 50-caliber pistol, up off its platform. He grips it in one hand, aims it at the first soldier on the left, and pulls back the safety.

"Stark-"

"You said I couldn't do it." Tony whispers, and pulls the trigger.

The shot reverberates around the room, and the team gasps despite our vows of silence as red blooms on the soldier's chest and he falls with a thud and a wet gurgle.

Ross and Tony don't even blink, just stare unblinking at each other.

"You are still capable, Mr. Stark." Ross admits quietly. "But you think I'm afraid of a little blood?"

"Nope." Tony shakes his head. "But I know what you _are_ afraid of."

"Really?" Ross leans back, amused. "Humor me then."

"Elizabeth Marissa Ross." Tony states simply, and Ross' eyes darken as he leans forward.

"You can't touch her, Stark, you know nothing about her."

"Do I?" Tony raises an eyebrow. "Her favorite color is the color is cerulean blue, her favorite drink is the grasshopper, and her favorite element is Sodium bicarbonate."

"That's common knowledge, Stark."

His eyebrows raise higher. "For her fourth birthday, you got her an EZ-brain Kid Science kit."

Ross clenches his jaw. "You still don't even know where she is."

Tony smirks darkly. "3412 Minestrone Street, New Zealand. At the Winston Institute of Ecological Sciences. She should be leaving in about," he checks his watch, "twelve minutes and forty two seconds. Shall we get her on the phone?"

"Stark-"

"Alright then." Tony whips out a phone, not his own, dialing a familiar number as putting it on speaker as it rings.

" _Dad?"_ Bruce stiffens again as Betty's voice comes over the line, sounding fearful and worried at the same time.

Ross must've heard it too, because he leans forward sharply. "Betty?"

" _Dad! I'm…I'm scared."_

"Betty, what's going on, are you okay?"

" _My computer just exploded_ _, it almost caught some explosive chemicals on fire_ _. The lab equipment all went dark, and my cell phone isn't working. I'm on a payphone outside. Dad, what is going on, what's happening?"_

Ross looks panicked now, his eye's boring into Tony's head. "Stark, stop this!"

"Stop hunting my people."

"Fine…" Ross pants. "Fine, okay, just stop _this_."

Tony snaps the phone shut, once again clasping his hands behind his back. "I have terms."

"Terms?" Ross scoffs, regaining his bravado. "Stark, there are no terms necessary."

"There are." Tony nods. "You will not be in the same country as any of the Avengers again. I will never see your face ever again. Quite simply, you will _leave us alone._ "

"Are you out of your mind? I can do this my own way, Stark, I don't need-"

Tony's posture shifted; he now looked confident like he did in front of the press, except the look in his eyes was that of pure, furious murder. "I suggest you agree, Ross...wouldn't want more collateral damage, would we?"

Ross puffs out his chest and tries to look confident, but the distress and fear are crystal clear in his eyes. "You're bluffing, Stark, what more could you do that you haven't already done?"

Tony's smile is a dark, twisted, humorless one. "Not me."

His whisper is the last thing heard before the room plunges into complete darkness. Everyone stiffens and nobody moves.

Suddenly there's a grunt from across the room, near the elevator, followed by a wet slicing sound, a groan, and a slight ruffling sound.

Then the light come back on, at full force, to reveal almost the same scene that disappeared when they went off, except for the fact that the soldier on the back right, behind the one that got shot is tense, with a very pale face and glazed eyes.

His knees give way and he tips forward, face meeting the floor. Everyone's eyes widen as we stare at his back and the combat knife hilt poking from between his shoulder blades.

And standing behind him is...Taylor.

Clint stiffens next to me, and I can tell the same thought just ran through our heads.

This is Taylor, obviously, but at the same time...it just isn't.

Her face is different. She's normally pretty, anyone can confirm that - especially Clint. But now her face holds the same look that a lioness holds as it stares down a zebra; entrancingly beautiful, powerful, and oh-so-deadly.

Her smile is sickly sweet; her voice melodic and slightly haunting, meant to send shivers down anyone's spine. "Ross."

"Ah," Ross slowly turns to face her, understanding flooding his face. "If it isn't the Prodigy of Death herself. I should've known."

Taylor nods. "Monster Hunter. I would say it's a pleasure to see you, but..." she waves a hand towards the two bodies slumped on the floor and the growing pool of blood around her feet.

"See, Ross?" Tony calls, as if he were pointing out a picture. "You should really agree to my - _our -_ terms. We haven't forgotten a thing."

Ross glances between Tony, Taylor, and the bodies nervously. "You can't do this, you're Avengers, heroes, and good guys don't kill."

Tony and Taylor adopt matching dark, sadistic grins. "Who said we were ever _good_?"

Taylor flicks her wrist and pulls a blade out of...somewhere, a six inch long serrated killing machine.

Ross takes one look and begins stammering his agreement. "Okay! Okay, y-you've made your p-point. I'll follow your t-terms. I'm leaving."

He quickly gathers his other two soldiers, the alive ones, and re-enters the elevator.

And, just like that, it's over as soon as it had begun.

Taylor sighs and looks at the blood cooling on the floor.

We all expect her to yell, scream, _something_ , but all she does is sigh like this was a huge waste of time, glance, at her dad, and walk over to one of the bodies.

"Well," The rest of us stand slowly from the couch, "that was utterly terrifying."

Tony shrugs. "Sorry."

I raise an eyebrow. "You don't _sound_ very sorry."

He just shrugs again, watching Taylor as she bends over the body with the knife.

"Comrades, what dark sorcery has taken over our friends?" Thor asks loudly, gripping his hammer.

"Whoa, buddy." Tony puts his hands up. "No magic involved. Calm down."

"Then, please, Stark, explain what just happened." Steve requests dryly.

Tony sighs and leans against the bar. "Well, just to be clear, that was _us_. Not alter-egos or anything."

"That just makes me wonder more." Bruce sighs.

"Alright, okay." Tony runs a hand through his hair, ignoring the flacks of dried blood. "Everyone knows we once made a sold weapons?"

We all nod.

"And I'm talking _big_ weapons, weapons of mass destruction. That practice eventually earned us the nicknames of Merchant," he waves towards himself then Taylor, "and Prodigy of Death. Given that we were literally making death, those titles were actually right on the head. Now, that business was not…not a pleasant place. We saw blood, gore, explosions…Hey Cap?"

"Yes?"

"You're right, I'm not a soldier. But I saw about a much as you did, we both did, as _civilians_."

Steve just looks ashamed.

"And that's not easy to get rid of." Tony shrugs. "Not even after six years. We are dark people. Okay?" Tony laughs humorlessly. "There's the truth. We don't have shining halos and snowy white wings. We've got maybe as much red on our ledgers as Spidey and Hawk."

We all stay silent, shocked at this newest side of our friends.

"Go on." Tony pushes. "Do want you need to, want to. Kick us of the team, call us a disgrace, come on, we can obviously take it."

The five of us look at each other in shock.

"Are you out of your mind?"

Tony blinks at Clint. "What?"

"I said, are you out of your mind? We aren't kicking you off the team, or calling you disgraces, we aren't doing anything like that."

Tony's jaw hits the floor and Taylor freezes, still over by the bodies and the cooling blood. "I…"

"The team is used to dripping ledgers by now." I continue, stepping forward. "Every single one of us has one, and we knew that even before Ross stepped foot in this tower. Plus, I'm pretty sure Clint would turn into a mushy lump of teenage girl if he and Taylor got separated."

"Hey!" Clint protests. "I would not."

"You would." Tony butts in.

"Anyways," Steve interrupts before that can continue into a push-pull argument, "We're aren't mad, but we are confused, and we would really like an explanation and whether or not we'll be accessories to murder."

Tony nods. "So anyways, back to my main story line. Merchant, Prodigy, death, missiles, yadda, yadda, yadda. We never really grew out of that. You've all seen us in board rooms and executive meetings?"

We all nod, remembering the times we've seen them command those even richer than them.

"Well, that…power, that…"

"Command?" Steve offers.

"Right, command. That's only a small sliver of what we're capable of, and this was a much better example."

"So…that darker side, the scary sides, that was the Merchant and Prodigy of Death, not you two?" Bruce asks, slightly confused.

"One and the same, really."

"Anyways," I push them back to the main explanation, "what about them?"

"Not dead." Taylor speaks up for the first time. "Just knocked out."

"What?" Steve looks confused, as do the rest of us. "But…we saw them…"

"Die?" Taylor raises an eyebrow. "Get stabbed and shot?"

"Yeah."

Taylor stands and walks over to the guy she supposedly stabbed in the back. "Trick knife, sort of a switchblade. I nerve pinched him. Should be out for another hour and a half, thereabouts." She pick up the knife hilt, showing not a bloody knife but thin air.

It was just a hilt, no blade. Until, that is, Taylor presses a button on the side and a blade, four inches long and shining steel, slings out with a sharp springing sound.

Clint whistles low next to me, and I have to admit I'm slightly impressed too.

Taylor chuckles at our faces. "I have more if you want them."

Steve looks at the first man, face down on the floor over by Tony. "And him?"

"Tranquilizing darts." Taylor walks over and nudges the guy onto his back with a foot. She leans down and plucks something from his shirt, and I squint to see a tiny dart, only about three inches long, and tipped with a few drops of red liquid.

"If they never got shot, stabbed, or otherwise mortally wounded," I look at the ground, "then what's with the blood?"

"Corn syrup, corn starch, and strawberry syrup." Taylor dips a finger in the liquid near one of the bodies and licks it. "It's actually pretty good. Works at parties too."

"So who are they?" I ask. "Are we going to have to smuggle them out and to wherever they live?"

Taylor leans back, amused eyes shining. "No, nothing like that." She points to the first man. "Randy Dawson," and the two the second man, "and Carl Houser. Actor friends of ours, help us prepare for conferences and stuff after missions."

I nod slowly.

"Now," Tony claps, "can someone help us get them to some spare rooms so they can get some rest?"

Steve hurries to help Tony, grabbing Randy's feet and lifting him with Tony at his head while Clint and I help Taylor with Carl.

After we get them in a couple of rooms, we all return to the living room, letting Tony and Taylor detour for a minute to change out of their clothes because they were covered in a sticky, dried sugar concoction.

Taylor returns to the living room through the kitchen, a sheepish look on her face. "Um, guys…I think the food burned."

Bruce makes a whining sound. "There go my leftovers."

"We could always go for takeout from that one place on the south end of Central Park." I suggest, watching as everybody nods thankfully.

Bruce still looks slightly unsure, though.

"Come on, big guy." Taylor coaxes. "Betty won't know the difference."

"She might." Bruce protests. "And we can't tell her why we had to get takeout."

"True," Tony admits, "we can't tell her Daddy dearest stopped by. She hasn't seen us like…that…yet. But we can, however, tell her that we are horrible cooks and what we made was inedible."

Bruce blinks. "That's insulting all of us...okay, let's do it."

Taylor cheers, running past us to the other elevator, avoiding the red sugar crusted section of the floor. "I call shotgun!"

"Oh no you don't!" Tony retorts, chasing after his daughter with a laugh.

"Hey, wait up!" Bruce calls, jogging towards the elevator with rest of us in tow. I share a glance with the mild-mannered scientist, and I see relief and immense gratefulness in his chocolate brown eyes.

I grin slightly and follow our team into the elevator.

If I let myself reflect on what just happened, I can find that it's simple, really.

Tony likes to flaunt our roster in the face of our enemies. He's done it to Loki, but he's also done it reassure us, like he did for Bruce after one of his major Hulk-outs.

So what if that roster's changed just a bit?

We have five of the smartest people on earth, geniuses, all of them; occasionally the Merchant of Death and the Prodigy of Death, sometimes the Hulk, and two of the brightest and friendliest females to walk the earth. We have two master assassins; a demigod, the Norse god of Thunder; and the one and only super soldier, a man who has survived time itself.

We're still a team, no matter how much red stains all of our ledgers.

Nothing has changed that so far, and nothing can change that now.

Not even Monster Hunters.


	15. Car People

Clint's POV

I will my car into the garage, just barely easing into a parking space before it gives out with a shudder, groan, and a cough. I hop out and slam the door just as Taylor steps out the elevator, flowed closely by Tony.

"I heard car trouble," she announces, "Either that or you have some new strain of swine flu."

I shake my head. "I'm fine. But that," I wave a hand towards my car, "is not."

She glances at her dad before taking a few steps forwards and curling her hand into a fist under her chin, a thoughtful look on her face. "Do you have any appointments with mechanics?"

I raise my eyebrows. "No. Are you offering?"

"Can we?"

"Will you add flamethrowers or something insane like that?"

She gives a small shake of her head. "Not unless you want us to."

"Fine," I sigh, "Go ahead."

She nods sharply. "Don't interrupt unless you're dying…and if that's the case, call Bruce first."

I nod and lean back against the wall to watch them work.

"Jarvis, cue the lift! Lab...2!" Taylor calls, and the car instantly begins to rise through some opened panels on the roof. "Floor above this one, first door on the left." Tony calls over his shoulder as he and his daughter set off for the elevator again.

I decide to take the stairs, eventually finding the designated lab and walking in to see my car about two feet off the ground, Taylor lying on her back on one of those wheely things mechanics use, and Tony near the rear of the car with several holograms floating around him.

"-this needs a type 5 drive shaft. Why does it have a 4?"

"I don't know," Tony replies distractedly. "It also needs a smaller oil pan. Jarvis-"

" _Dummy is fetching one of the slim designs as we speak."_

"Thanks," Taylor calls, then pauses. "Do we have any man-trams left?"

"Somewhere." Tony frowns. "I thought this used an auto-tram?"

"It did." She points at something on a hologram. "Look. The auto got burnt out, almost to the point of catastrophic failure."

"We have auto-trams in stock," Tony protests. "We could just change it out."

"Doing the same thing and expecting different results is a definition of insanity." Taylor snaps. "And I don't feel like having my boyfriend charbroiled, thank you very much."

"Fine," Tony huffs. "Jarvis, where are the man-trams?"

" _Fourth row, third column, third shelf down. Storage room 1A."_

Taylor nods and silently slides out to get it, leaving Tony and I in complete silence minus the occasional cranking of a wrench until she returns about five minutes later with a cart loaded with a transmission and a few extra parts. She pushes the cart over to Tony, who nods and unloads it, hoisting the transmission into the car while Taylor hops into the front seat of the car and tinkers with something. "Has the oil pan come in yet?"

"It's right here. We need to change the oil too."

"Type?"

"Usual for this."

Taylor nods, somehow understanding the shorthand used, before slamming the car door shut and sliding back under the car, taking the oil pan and a small wrench with her.

One clatter, a splash, and a litany of muttered curses later, she slides back out, her head and shoulders covered in a black sludge I can only assume was the oil in my car. She just wipes her face with a rag that was lying around before getting up, snapping on a pair of goggles, and sliding back under the car.

I just shake my head as the shorthand banter continues.

"Idiot."

"That was pretty idiotic, yes. But I'm-"

"An idiotic genius, then."

"Takes one to know one. Is the drive shaft a five yet?"

"It is. He needs new brake fluid too."

"My god…is the antifreeze intact? At least?"

Tony snorts. "Barely."

Taylor huffs and grumbles while she slides back out and over to a low shelf, grabbing two jugs before sliding back over. "What about the brake pads?"

"Still there. Used, of course, but still in working condition."

"Is working condition the same as optimal condition?"

"They won't need to be replaced for another half year, minimum, unless he starts doing those crazy maneuvers like the Secret Service does."

"You can do most of those in your car." Tony points out around the screwdriver between his teeth.

"Doesn't me they aren't insane. Is this tubing okay?"

Tony rolls over about half a foot. "Seems to be…put a sucker on it."

Taylor nods simply and moves on. "Axels seem okay…wait, come here and look at this."

"Ugh…do a temperate flash mold."

Taylor nods and slides out, grabbing a tool of a workbench before slipping back under. There's a hissing sound for about thirty seconds, then a whoosh, some sparks, and another hiss as some slight steam rises from the area around my right rear tire. "Everything's okay!" Taylor reassures me without even looking up and without me needing to say a thing.

"Is that it?"

"Trans?"

"Check."

"Drive shaft?"

"Yeah."

"Fluids?"

"Got 'em."

"Oil pan?"

"Replaced."

All's silent for a moment before "Then that is all. Come on, time for stage 2."

They both slide out, and I get a good look at both of them. Taylor's still covered head and shoulders in oil, her normally soft brunette hair black and stringy. Tony's shirt is sweat plastered between his shoulders and a red mark is quickly forming just below his cheek bone.

Taylor jogs off to get cleaned up as Tony calls for the car to be lowered as he walks up to me. "We need you to take a test drive."

"What?!"

"Don't worry, we'll be monitoring the car from here." He pulls over a group of holograms, the screens showing charts, graphs, and energy level reading I can't begin to comprehend. "We placed sensors, or suckers, on a few parts of the car, and those feed their readings to here. We also installed a temporary fail safe."

"Fail safe."

"Yep." Taylor walks up from behind us, dressed in a new t-shirt and jeans with her hair still damp. "Just in case something goes really wrong. In that case, we can hit a button and immediately stop the car. But it's only temporary, we can take it off when we're done."

I nod and climb in my car. "Wish me luck."

My girlfriend grins. "You shouldn't need it."

I pull out of the lab, down a ramp, and onto the street as she returns to the bubble of screens, her dad and her murmuring softly.

The ride is a lot quieter – no groaning, wheezing, or coughing of any sort – and soft, like I was riding on air. Or a cloud. Or something else soft and clichéd like that.

I return to the garage and am immediately met with two grinning mechanics. Taylor pulls me out of the car as Tony messes with something under the hood, probably removing the fail safe.

"You know," I grin at them, "you're either brilliant or just lucky. And I'm a smart, brave, idiot for agreeing to this. Nobody tells Natasha?"

They grin. "Deal."


	16. And All the Foes Shall Perish

All the Foes Shall Perish

Bruce's POV

I sigh as I shift on the uncomfortable barstool and watch Tony flirt shamelessly with the girl sitting on his other side. I had been roped into being Tony's wingman, and only because I had literally nothing else to do and Tony had spectacular puppy eyes.

Taylor gave me a sympathetic grin from her seat a few tables away, ready to help haul Tony home if he got drunk. _Just ride it out,_ she mouths.

 _How?_ I raise my eyebrows.

She waves her phone. _I'm texting Clint._

I pat my pockets down and sigh, shaking my head. She just gives me another sympathetic look and goes back to her phone as I listen to the girl – Abby? Allie? Annie? – drone on and on about some photo shoot.

Then Tony excuses himself to go the bathroom, shooting me a thumbs up as he passes me. I just roll my eyes and shake my head, silently wondering why we had to be here when Tony could always occupy himself in his workshop.

Once he's gone, the girl huffs and reapplies her lipstick, using the mirror behind the bar to, ah, _adjust_ certain…assets…to make them more aesthetically pleasing. She then pokes around in her small purse for a minute before picking up a pink phone with a case that was covered in rhinestones. "Hey, it's Andi." Oh, so that was her name. I was close. "Horrible. The man only worries about himself, it, like, _so_ trashy…That may have been a stunt, do you think he might have had a stunt double? No, I don't think it was Channing Tatum! And, ugh, he hangs out with losers. The green _thing_ has no fashion sense…I know, right? But the leader…he should be modeling, not rolling around with these scumbags…ugh, don't even get me started on the girls. The redhead is, like, so yesterday, practically screaming for attention…such a snake, And the kid, ooh, don't know what that steamy piece of buff sees in her. So immature…dirty, much? What a baby."

I tense and look over at Taylor, who is stiff as a board with her eyes sharp and focused on Andi, and I can see one of her hands twitching, presumably towards one of her weapons.

"Do you think I could get Jase and Carlos on this? Scuff their polish a bit?...no. Of course not, OMG. That would…no, I was going to…"

"Can I shoot her?" a voice breathes from behind me, the words brushing against my back.

"Not in public," I hiss back. "But I don't particularly enjoy her either."

"You don't say."

She slips back into her usual seat, barely seen, as she keeps one hand on her hip – and, by extension, her pistol.

"…so last season… I could get Stark in with us, don't you think? Wipe some of the oil off, shave the goatee, slick the hair…I _know_ that, Juli. I just don't think he can…I can be plenty comforting! The kid's mother in all bye-bye, I can comfort a grieving widow. Make him see the error-" I barely see a shadow squirm to my left.

She never finishes her sentence. She gets full on tackled by a whirlwind of jeans, leather boots, and a purple hoodie. She writhes under Taylor for a few seconds before the upper hand becomes clear and Taylor drags her up by the shirt, pinning her against the guy and bracing her forearm against Andi's neck that with one upwards jerk, could snap her neck.

"Who are you?! Police, police _help_ -" Taylor shuts her up by smacking her free palm into the side of her side. "Ow!"

"I doubt I did any real damage," Taylor snarls, "It seems most of your brain cells are on vacation."

"What?" Andi blinks dumbly.

Taylor sighs and shakes her head. "Hey, did you hear about that huge gas leak thing last week? I heard a certain team stopped them…"

"Really?" Andi looks curious. "Which one?"

Taylor stares at her. "I can't allude to anything with you, can I?" She tilts her head. "Trashy, really? Is that how you see Tony Stark, let alone the Avengers?"

"He can do so much more with his life," she whines pathetically.

Taylor bares her teeth. "Really? Genius, smartest man in the world, multi-billionaire, head of one of the biggest charity foundations in the US…what more does he need?"

"Me," she smirks.

"And you're _so_ important, aren't you?" Taylor growls. "What's so special about you?"

"Everyone likes me, _duh_." Andi explains as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Nah," Taylor smirks. "Not _everyone_. Or else we wouldn't be here, would we?"

"What? The Unholy Grail?" Andi frowns as she names the bar.

Taylor uses her free hand to facepalm. " _No._ I mean here," she pushes her arm into her captor's neck, "you idiot."

"I don't understand…"

"Of course you don't." Taylor sighs. "Anyways, I hardly see Tony Star as trashy. So, Miss Queen Bee, unless you want to find yourself in more… _sticky_ …situations like this one, I suggest you keep you fruitalicious Cherry Sparkle lips sealed. Are we clear?"

Andi mods cheerfully just as there's movement behind us signaling someone else in the room. Taylor quickly pinches at something in Andi's neck, causing her to go limp as she gets tossed behind the bar, hitting the ground with a muffled thud.

Taylor glances around quickly, noting the silence before straightening her hair and walking over to me. "You don't understand German, right?"

"Nothing more than hello, why?"

"I need to make some calls…" she fishes out her phone and taps a few numbers in before raising it to her ear. "Falke? Ich bin es. Hören Sie , mein Schatz, ich brauche einen gefallen." She rolls her eyes. "Nein, ich habe niemanden getötet…ich schwöre!" she hiffs. "Ja! Wie auch immer, ich brauche dich und spinne, sie schauen. Und verwenden sie die van..." she tilts her head. "Hause, ja, nicht ins gefängnis. Nicht so schlecht. Zu nennen? Und Ich. Ich weiß nicht. Fahren sie sicher , meine Liebe, ich glaube nicht, müssen sie sie entweder zu töten…ich liebe dich auch. Auf Wiedersehen."

She ends the call and slips her phone back into her pocket, turning back to me.

"Who was that?"

We both jump and turn to see Tony walking up from behind us, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"A guy," Taylor replies vaguely. "Don't worry about it."

Tony squints at her and then looks around the bar suspiciously. "Where did Andi go?"

"She left," Taylor shrugs, "and seemed to be in a big hurry," she states nonchalantly like Andi wasn't really knocked out behind the very bar she was currently leaning on.

Tony shrugs and looks at her again, specifically the purple bruise forming beneath her eye. "What's with the shiner?"

She shrugs again. "Old training mishap, the concealer must've worn off."

Tony looks hesitant but nods slowly, grabbing his coat and slapping a waded up bill on the bar before heading out the door.

I fall behind and Taylor purposely matches my stride. "You want to tell me where that bruise _really_ came from?"

"Trashy's handbag whacked me," she winces. "Man, Louis Vutton _hurts._ "

"I'll be checking that out when we get home," I warn her, but she just nods. "I expected as much, Doc."

I nod. "Nice job."

"Thank you," she grins, then frowns. "I don't like doing that."

"What, beating up your dad's bad mouthers?"

She shakes her head. "No, that I like. It's more…the principle. Tackling his mean girls, the ones who stab in the back with tweezers. He…before the team he dated around so much…I remember the first time I walked in on him." Her face gains an amused look. "I was six. And traumatized for a week. Anyways, it's not good for him. But I can't do anything because he's the parent, not me, and I can't tell him who to date, only vice-versa." She sighs.

"I can talk to him," I offer, watching as her eyes light up. "I was in there too."

"You would?" I nod. "Thanks, Bruce! You never heard it from me."

"Heard what?" I ask impishly as Tony honks his horn impatiently, causing Taylor and I to pick up our pace slightly. "Calm down, Tony!"

"Hurry up, Bruce!"

"Meh!"

"Myah!"

"Both of you, shut up!"


	17. Battle of the Genders

Clint's POV

"-and then you pull this little thing right here and your enemy gets splattered."

I walk into the kitchen to see Taylor and Thor mid-conversation, Taylor gesturing towards the disassembled rifle that lies between them. "Who gets splattered with what?"

Taylor spins to face me, the surprise in her eyes quickly being overtaken by delight. "Oh, hi! Paint, people get splattered with paint. I'm teaching Thor here about the virtues of paintball."

"So that," I gesture towards the metal pieces on the table, "never shot bullets?"

"Nope, only tiny paint balls." Taylor holds up a little red ball between her thumb and forefinger. "Not dangerous, just painful."

"Okay, good." I sigh. "May I ask why you're teaching our resident god how to shoot people with paint?"

"He saw something online." Taylor shrugs. "And everyone else was busy, so…"

"Have you even played paintball before?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Have _you_?"

"No, but quit deflecting!"

She shakes her head. "No, but I _have_ used real rifles, with real bullets, in real danger. This is a step down."

I nod. "Do they make paintball archery sets?"

"No," she sighs, "and I checked everywhere. Paintball used bullet-like projectiles, nothing like arrows."

"Too bad."

She nods.

"Lady Stark, what is this mechanism called?" Thor pokes the rifle, and Taylor has to stop the god from sticking his fingers into anything that would end in catastrophe.

I settle onto the couch and begin channel surfing, but my eyes keep drifting back to the paintball gun; I can't seem to let it go.

And then I know how to do just that.

"Hey," I turn to Taylor, "what does everyone else think about paintball?"

She shrugs. "Natasha likes it, my dad has other things to think about, Steve doesn't know much about it, and Bruce actively avoids anything with big guns."

I lick my lips thoughtfully as I nod. "I think we can change that."

"We can…" Taylor grins slightly, fully directing her attention onto me. "What do you have in mind?"

* * *

A few days later we have formed teams (Taylor, Nat, Betty, and Darcy vs. Tony, Steve, Thor, and I), gathered gear, and trekked out to a paintball course near the lower side of Manhattan.

Bruce – acting as medic and referee as necessary – makes sure we all know _exactly_ what we're getting into and that all of our adding and protection is firmly strapped on before standing back to explain the rules.

"Okay, everyone, listen up. On the table in front of me are eight paintball guns – four loaded with blue bullets, four with red ones. Girls get red, boys get blue. Each person gets one rifle, loaded full with bullets, and an extra pouch of ammo. Each team will get five minutes to get in position, and I will mark the start with this air horn," he holds up a standard air horn. "Five minutes start…now!"

He punches a button on a stopwatch as the girls take off in a tight pack towards a ridge to the east of the field, my team doing the same to the west.

The four of us hole up in a shack once we feel we're far enough away from the start point to stay safe enough to discuss strategy.

"Let me get up high," I ask almost immediately. "Taylor and I are both snipers, we're both ten times better up high than we are on the ground. They're putting her up, I know they are, I need to do the same."

Steve nods his consent, slipping into leader mode. "Right, Clint, get as high as you can. I need eyes. Tony…darn it. You're usually in the air."

"I know," Tony sighs. "As is Fabio over here. I can use a rifle easily enough though, and I make very good bait."

Steve shakes his head. "Thor makes better bait. Thor, how well can you use a weapon like that?"

"The Lady Stark tells me I am what is called 'a lousy shot,' and I have none of an idea what she means."

"She means you should stick to hammers," Tony and I explain, grinning at Taylor's words. "So we have bait."

"Who do you think they'll use?" Tony wonders aloud.

"Darcy, most likely," I decide. "Taylor's a sniper, Natasha's…well, Natasha, and Betty has a little bit of Army training."

Steve nods at my assessment. "So we each have one up high, two ground fighters, and bait. Tony, stay close to me. Clint, waste no time in gaining altitude. Thor, listen to my word exactly; I will tell you where to go and what to do. Got it?"

We all nod and quickly pull on our helmets, bracing at the door as the air horn blares. I'm right behind Tony as he exits, slinging my rifle over my back as I clamber up the shack, standing on the roof before sinking onto my stomach and crawling to peer over the edge. I'm about eight feet off the ground, and I can see about one hundred feet away and about 170 degrees around me without turning my head. I glimpse a flash of blonde hair behind a tree to my right, and I flash the 'OK' signal whether or not Steve can see me. Thanks to serum enhanced sight, however, he can, because he nods before waving in the direction of another tree and moving quickly to the east, Tony on his tail.

I can see Thor moving slowly through the course directly ahead of me, listening to the whispered commands from Steve as he makes a slow, serpent shaped pattern through the obstacles. The first glimpse I get of 'the enemy' is movement heading southwest in a sharper zigzag trail. I focus for a moment before recognizing Jane's intern and confirming my theory of Darcy-bait.

I fire the first two shots of the game at her, watching as she dives behind the nearest Styrofoam block and Steve orders Thor to take cover as she returns fire in their direction. The girls are wearing green forest camo while the boys wear plain black armor.

I line up my rifle and watch as Steve and Tony run for the trees to the east and are immediately met with a barrage of red paint. Tony's leg is hit, and I watch him tuck and roll behind Steve, returning fire by poking his rifle out from behind Steve's hip.

I fire upon a figure on the east side of the field, watching as the figure gets splattered with blue and faint Russian curses float on the wind. "Gotcha Nat," I murmur, before ducking my head in to avoid the red raining down around me. "Forgot she has a sniper too."

I line my rifle up as movement catches my eye to my two o'clock and I unleash a hailstorm on my target. Red explodes against them, but there's a moment of hesitation as to whether or not she's out.

"Paint check!" Darcy shouts, prying her helmet off.

"Someone else check her!" a familiar voice shouts. "This perch is comfy."

I set my rifle down and open my helmet to let my face breathe as a familiar red head jogs over to Darcy to check my hit. The converse for a moment before Natasha nods and Darcy raises her rifle over her head. "Hit!"

Natasha walks her off to the north, where the Dead Zone is. About five minutes later, a bullhorn squeals and Bruce's voice announces "Game is hot!"

I instantly smack my helmet back down and rest my rifle against my shoulder. The first shot of the game is aimed at Thor, red paint covering his visor. "I have been hit!" And another one hits the Dead Zone.

I curl slightly to avoid bullets coming from below, returning fire as soon as I'm able. There's a bit of rustling and then my immediate area falls quiet again and I take the chance to check up on Steve and Tony. I can see a bigger shape lying behind a block to my twelve o'clock and a shape just behind him braced against a tree.

Suddenly there's a pop and red covers Tony's hips and abdomen. He goes down, curling into a ball and giving pathetic mews.

"Time out!" Bruce calls via bullhorn. "Someone check Tony."

Steve sighs as he stands and walks over to his teammate, rolling him over and taking off his helmet. Tony has his eyes squeezed shut but he nods, and squeaks something to Steve, who nods and shouts "Yeah, he's hit alright. Taylor, I hope you didn't want siblings!"

I chuckle slightly as Steve helps Tony limp off the field, returning a few minutes later before Bruce calls time in and he scatters.

About half an hour later, by my internal clock, Steve, Betty, Natasha, Taylor and I are the only ones standing and the girls are slowly taking the field. Steve has been forced behind a bluff and I haven't moved.

There's a flash of movement and I fire instinctively, watching as Betty – I think – becomes a spot of blue against a tree. "Hit…hit multiple times, screw you," she grumbles as she trudges off.

I allow myself a mental victory cheer and a smirk as I readjust my grip on my gun. Suddenly, to my left, there's a howl, some rustling, and a thud. I look over to see Steve rolling down a hill. Tangled with another body. As they reach the bottom of the hill, the other person is revealed to be Natasha, who immediately kicks him away and splatters his back before he can get up.

"Hit," Steve sighs, raising his rifle and taking the walk of shame to the Dead Zone.

And then I'm cursing myself and my divergence from alertness because something wet is covering the right side of my head, fired from a gun level with mine. "Darn it, I'm out."

Everything falls silent for a moment before Bruce's bullhorn squeals again. "And that's a wrap! Lower your guns, I repeat, lower your guns! The winners are the girls!"

I jump off the roof of the shack, throwing my rifle over my shoulder as I make my way north, wiping the paint off my helmet as I do so. I emerge into the Dead Zone clearing and stop as I watch Tony wincing, curled into a ball as Darcy pats his head, Thor looking amused by the pair and Steve staring like he thinks they've lost their minds.

I laugh and shake my head as Natasha emerges from the trees, a smug grin on her face. "Hey hawk!"

"Yeah spider?"

"You owe me ammo for my victory."

I squint at her. "How does that make any sense?"

She shrugs.

Bruce scans the clearing, mumbling a head count under his breath. "Where's Taylor?"

I glance around at the team, meeting Tony's eyes as I don't see his daughter. "Taylor!" I cup my hands around my mouth. "You can come out now!"

There's a slight rustling sound coming from the trees behind me. "Get the Soviet Spider to put down the gun!"

I sigh and back up a few steps to lean back against a tree as Natasha sighs and sets her rifle on the ground, raising her hands, palm up.

There's more rustling, then "Hey Clint, catch!"

I barely have time to drop my rifle and brace myself before my arms are full of one hundred twenty pounds of Taylor. "Thank you," she grins as she pecks me on the cheek and hops down.

"No problem."

She grab he rifle from the tree's base and delivers it to the table, turning to face Natasha sheepishly. "Sorry about the mistrust there."

"It's okay," Natasha grins, "I wouldn't trust me either. Nice job, Sparrow."

"Thank you. Nice shot there with my dad."

"That was you?!" Tony interrupts. "Ow!"

Natasha just smirks and shrugs, not looking too sorry.

Steve groans as he stands. "Paintball _hurts_."

"It's also slightly awesome," Darcy counters, bouncing on her feet.

"Yeah," Steve concedes, "I'll give you that."

I grin as I take in the entire team: Steve with red drying on his back, Tony still walking awkwardly, Darcy grinning like a madwoman, Betty looking like Smurfette, Taylor with a peaceful small smile, Thor with red covering his chest and a goofy smile, and Natasha standing in the middle of it all, untouched.

I burst out laughing as the paint dries on my face, and nobody questions it; just eventually joining me in side-splitting laughter.


	18. Foreign

**1\. Russian**

Bruce's POV

"Where's Natasha?" I ask as I scan the living room, with six out of seven superheroes occupying it and ready for movie night.

Clint shrugs, "I dunno."

The rest of the team shrugs, so Taylor looks to the ceiling. "Jarvis, where is she?"

" _Miss Romanoff is currently on the tenth floor, ma'am."_

"Relay a message, will you?"

" _Certainly, ma'am."_

She looks up at the ceiling. "Наташа! Получите ваш маленький советский зад сюда!"

Clint looks at her, slightly stunned. "Did you just order Nat to get her 'little Soviet butt' down here?"

She shrugs, not taking her eyes off the ceiling. "It's movie night."

A reply soon sounds from the speaker on the ceiling. "Иди к черту!"

Taylor winces as she stands and heads for the kitchen. "So it's that time of the month again." She digs through the cabinets for a while before pulling out a paper bag. "У нас есть конфеты!"

"… _she says she will be right down, ma'am, and that you had better be telling the truth."_

Taylor just grins and holds out the bag as Natasha comes through the kitchen, letting her snatch it and peek inside.

"Спасибо," Natasha snarls as she stalks towards the couch.

"Добро пожаловать." Taylor grins as she follows her into the living room. "Although I don't think 'thank you,' was ever supposed to be said that…vilely."

Natasha just glares at her and harrumphs as she sinks onto the back of the couch near Clint.

"So…movie?"

.

 **2\. French**

Steve's POV

I refrain from sighing as I follow Taylor out of the limousine for the fifth time that day. She was on a trip for a meeting in Paris, and I had somehow become her default bodyguard.

She's told me time and time again that she had nothing to do with that, but that I was just the most reliable Avenger – to everyone else, at least.

Taylor looks at her phone and mutters darkly. "Steve?"

"What's up?"

"It turns out Ramies Corp bumped their break forward and Lemonier wants us there at four, not three. We have nothing to do for the next…hour."

"We could just walk the streets of Paris," I suggest. "Souvenir shop."

She grins and nods. "Good idea. Take this, it translates French to English." I grab the earpiece off her palm and push it into my ear, following her as she leads me into the crowds on a nearby sidewalk.

And then we're nearly shoved off again by some guy pressing too close for comfort, his hands brushing a little too close to…ah…yeah.

I step forward to tell the guy off, but Taylor beats me to the punch. "Hé! Que pensez-vous que vous faites, espèce de porc?"

My earwig translates after a second. _"Hey! What do you think you're doing, you damn pig?"_

"Je disais juste bonjour," the guy replies smoothly. "Je ne peux pas dire bonjour aux jolies dames que Je vois dans la rue?"

" _I was just saying hello…I can't say hello to the pretty ladies I see on the street?"_

I clench my jaw and step forward, but Taylor looks like she's holding her own. "Non! Non, vous ne pouvez pas, surtout pas avec moi!"

" _No, no you can't, at least not me!"_

"Et pourquoi pas?" the guy questions. "Êtes-vous sensible?"

" _And why not? Are you sensitive?"_

"Non!" she snaps. "J'ai un petit ami!"

" _No! I have a boyfriend!"_

The guy snorts. "Et alors?" _So what?_

Taylor just rolls her eyes. "Alors _ça_." _So_ _ **this**_ _,_ and whacks him over the head with her briefcase, catching him and setting him down gently. "Bonne nuit, dors bien."

" _Goodnight, sleep tight."_

I laugh as she walks back over to me, dusting off her jacket. "Bienvenue en France, Steve."

" _Welcome to France, Steve."_

.

 **3\. Spanish (and technically sign language)**

Tony POV

We were holed up in a Mexican jail, all five of us, and for once it wasn't my fault.

It was Steve's.

The poor guy had been trying to use what Natasha said was 'Spanglish – broken Spanish/English,' and had offended dome poor chum and the cops had just arrested us because we weren't local.

 _We_ being Taylor, Steve, Thor, Bruce, and I. Go figure that the two linguists aren't with us.

Rattling makes me look up, and I see Taylor signing something to Bruce, making her handcuffs rattle. Bruce, not yet Hulked, signs something back, and Taylor nods before going up to the bars in front of the holding cell. "Guardias! Disculpa, los guardias!"

I blink as a guard walks up to the cell. "¿Qué es, señorita?"

Taylor studies her shoes, suddenly just looking like a shy little girl. "Um...yo quería saber si...um..."

"Seguir adelante con ella, chica!"

"Necesito rayar una picazón, se puede desbloquear mis manos?"

The guard suddenly looks sympathetic and reaches through the bars to unlock Taylor's handcuffs. Before he can draw back out, however, she grabs his wrist and pulls, slamming his forehead against the bar and bringing him down cold.

She immediately reaches through the bars and begins patting him down. "Sus llaves, las llaves, ¿dónde están las llaves?"

"What?" I hiss at Steve.

"She's either searching his keys or a herd of llamas…"

I give him a strange look as Taylor digs out his key ring and unlocks all of our wrists before turning to Bruce and quickly signing something.

Bruce nods and pulls out his cellphone, handing it to her before turning to the rest of us. "She's calling the cavalry, but the conversation's not going to be in English. Can't attract suspicion."

We nod as Taylor puts the phone to her ear. "Araña? Soy yo, gorrión…me llamo porque estoy en la cárcel, la cárcel mexicana. Yo, padre, Steve, Thor, y Bruce…No, no Hulk todavía. De rota español Cap, eso es lo que nos trajo hasta aquí." She grins. "¡Gracias! ¡Gracias tanto, Nat. Te debo una...yo sé. Te sugiero tomar el avión." She nods and signs something one-handed to Bruce. "Una hora? Bueno. Nos vemos entonces."

She hangs up the phone and hands it back to Bruce. "Calvary arrives by jet in about an hour, you're welcome."

I blink at her. "…I really need to catch up on what you've learned."


	19. Disruption

_I knew that my love life, just like every other relationship, wouldn't be happy forever._

 _At least, my logical-198-IQ brain knew that, but the more emotional side of my brain – it really hadn't kicked in **until** my love life took off – was in complete denial. I didn't want to fight with the second most important guy in my life; I didn't want to believe we even **could** fight._

 _As it turns out, we could._

 _The 'honeymoon' period, as Darcy calls it, ended for Clint and I after a particularly grueling mission involving two married psychos, their non-psychotic **innocent** children, and the fact that we all felt guilty – a five year old boy and his three year old sister were dead because **we weren't fast enough, didn't get there quick enough, didn't do anything-**_

 _Anyways, we were all on edge afterwards and it exploded in a bit of a nasty lover's spat (named so by Betty)._

* * *

I keep a brisk pace as I quietly follow my boyfriend out of the stairwell, emerging onto his floor, heading to the kitchen as he disappears into his bedroom.

"Clint," I call softly, hands clenching the counter of his minibar as images of little crushed skulls flash behind my eyes, "are you okay?"

"I'm fine," comes the clipped, hard reply.

I blink at the tone. "It doesn't sound like it."

"I. Am. Fine," he almost growls. "Drop it."

I tighten my grip on the counter almost imperceptibly. "Well excuse me for worrying about my boyfriend."

"You're excused," he replies in a monotone voice as he emerges into his personal, slightly small living room, still not looking at me.

"Clint, come on," I urge, "what's going on? Please, just tell me what's wrong."

"Figure it out, genius," he snaps, the normally endearing term holding only mockery.

"Hey!" I retort, crossing my arms defensively. "I'm only trying to help-"

"Don't bother."

"-so there is _no need_ to get all irritated at me!" I finish, never once raising my voice.

"Well then stop," he states as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

I tilt my head slightly. "What?"

"Stop trying to help," he growls. "I don't need your help."

"Clint," I snort, amused, "we've been dating for over a year now and we were best friends for three years before that. There isn't a switch you can flip that'll just get me to stop caring."

"Well then, you can _make one_ , can't you, Miss 198 IQ?" Again, only mockery in his words.

"I'm a mechanic, not a sorceress," I snap, clenching my fist. "And you know that, Clinton Francis Barton-"

"Ooh, the full name treatment!" he drawls. "I'm _so_ scared! What're you going to do _Mom_ , ground me?"

I grit my teeth and take a step forward. "Look at me."

This catches him off guard. "Huh?"

"Look. At. Me. Hawkeye." I order.

He does, and something breaks inside when I see his eyes are only a slightly darker grey color. "What are you doing?"

"Checking for external influence," I deadpan. "Because this isn't you. I know you."

" _Really?!"_ he rounds on me, eyes flashing steel. "Do you?"

I stay silent, pursing my lips and giving him a calculating look.

"Don't _look_ at me like that," he snaps, turning away from me. "I'm not just some puzzle you can just _solve_."

"Well life would be a hell of a lot easier if you were!" I scream. "You're not acting much like the Clint I know right now!"

"Stop saying you _know_!" he roars, rounding on me again. "You know! I get it, genius, you're smart! I get it, I really do! But that's machines – cold, hard, heartless _metal_! This is people, and you don't understand! You don't understand _people_! I do, and you don't! You don't know me; face it, _genius_. You don't know _me_ , and you never will! I don't need your help, Stark, and I DON'T NEED YOU!"

I feel like I've been slapped. Hurt throbs through my veins, and I watch regret immediately flood my – Clint's eyes as I take a step back. "Taylor-"

"Fine, _Barton_ ," I whisper shakily, turning on my heel and fleeing the room, ignoring his cries and pleas as I sprint through the hallways, barely noticing as I slammed into someone along the way.

"Jarvis," I gasp as I burst onto the landing pad, "static deployment Beta III."

 _"Ma'am-"_

"Do it!" I howl as I near the edge of the platform and take a deep breath before letting myself fall over the edge, only freefalling for about five feet before I'm caught from behind by metal and gears and familiar black and purple metal. I immediately shoot of in a random direction, flying essentially blind and putting all my faith in Jarvis.

"J," I mutter quietly, shakily, "take me _home_."

* * *

Exactly three hours, forty one minutes, forty six seconds, and thirty eight milliseconds later (my brain goes into overdrive when I'm upset) my boots touch the roof of the Malibu Mansion, technically home since I lived here until I was about fourteen.

I quickly let the suit fold into a briefcase behind me, grabbing it just as the last piece falls into place and hauling it inside, setting it on the kitchen counter before collapsing onto the nearest couch.

What the hell had just happened? What was _that_?

 _That was you and Clint fighting_ , a little pessimistic voice reminds me, _you knew it was coming._

Obviously I did, couples aren't sunshine and rainbows 100% of the time – what little I knew of my mother could prove that. Betty and Bruce had broken up ("Extraordinary circumstances!" she claims. Yeah, those _circumstances_ were called _Hulk_ and _Bruce disappeared._ ) Jane and Thor, as far as I knew, had never fought, but that might be because a) They were rarely in physical proximity to each other, b) Thor was like a big puppy, and c) you'd have to do something extremely stupid to make Thor mad at you, and Jane was no fool.

But _Clint and I_? Darcy one depicted us as the 'it' couple: the couples everyone envies, everyone wants to be like. We were perfect in the eyes of the press, the world, and even the majority of our teammates; even my dad wasn't extremely worried about us, and that was saying something.

But now…

Now everything had just… _broken_.

I shudder as images of the little mutilated corpses from this morning flash in my head, shaking my head both to clear those images of the ones of Clint's angry eyes and snarl.

I grab one of the many StarkPads that are stashed around the house and tap a few buttons opening both the diagrams to a new repulsor gun that probably going to go nowhere and a recent article by _Forbes_ magazine, somehow managing to focus on both equally.

And then I lose myself in the numbers, the equations.

Because math doesn't yell at you.

 _Math doesn't **need** you either, _the pessimistic little voice remarks.

 _Shut up_ , I tell it.

* * *

I eventually emerge from my headspace, when it's dark outside and a quick look at the clock reads 10:32 pm, Pacific Standard Time, which meant it was past midnight at the Tower.

Was Clint asleep? Was he thinking of me? Did he even have any regrets at all?

 _Don't be idiotic!_ My conscience admonishes. _Of course he did, did you not see the look in his eyes before you ran?_

 _But what if-_

 _"Miss Stark, Miss Ross is on the line,"_ Jarvis informs me. _"She informs me it is urgent, or she would not have called."_

I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip, hesitating slightly before deciding. "Put her through."

 _"Taylor?"_

"Betty."

 _"Okay, alright; first, are you okay?"_

"I've been better," I admit. "Did Clint tell you what happened?"

 _"No-"_

"Good," I sigh.

 _"-but I heard everything."_

"Oh," I groan, dragging a hand over my face. "Who else did?"

 _"Bruce, Thor, Steve…Tony."_

I groan again. "…excuse me for a second. Jarvis, mute the call."

Once he's done so, I let out litany of curses to rival some of my dad's foulest and throw the coffee mug on the side table at the wall, watching with a grim satisfaction as it shatters into countless pieces. "Unmute. Betty?"

 _"Yeah, I'm here. You good now?"_

"Better," I correct. "Better. Not quite good."

 _"Yeah, I get it. I've been in your shoes."_

" _Your_ boyfriend has a convenient green rage monster he can blame. Mine – I mean, Clint – has what?"

 _"The stress of seeing two little kids murdered,"_ she suggests. _"And he's still your boyfriend."_

"I haven't been able to determine that, not since…ah, ten this morning."

 _"Don't give up that easily,"_ she insists. _"And he hasn't had a chance to reaffirm himself."_

"What do you mean?" I ask, confused. "Was there a mission no one told me about?"

 _"Unless you count playing keep-Clint-away-from-Tony a mission, no, there wasn't."_

I sigh. "How bad is it?"

 _"DEFCON 1 bad."_

I swear again. "Okay…how fast can Clint be here?"

 _"Three and a half hours, if Jarvis helps copilot the jet. Are you sure?"_

"I'd rather he not be murdered, thanks."

 _"Aw, you do care."_

I roll my eyes. "Shut up."

 _"Alright, I'll send him over. Bye."_

"Bye." I signal for Jarvis to cut the call and settle back onto the couch. I turn back to the StarkPad, idly tapping out the rhythm to a Russian lullaby Tasha taught me.

* * *

The jet touches down at 2:14 am, and I'm still absorbed in the tablet.

Soft footsteps (he's being _purposely_ loud) alert me to another presence in the room. I do not, however, look up or attempt to _do_ anything.

"Taylor?" Clint calls softly, not even trying to disguise the desperate note in his voice.

"We were on last name terms last time we spoke," I muse quietly.

"I know." He sighs miserably. "I know…and…I…"

I suddenly stand and cross the room, still not looking at him as I walk out onto the balcony and take in the cool salty air and the calm seas. "Why?" I whisper. "What did I do?"

"Nothing!" he yelps quickly. "Nothing…it wasn't your fault."

"Was it yours?" I question slyly.

"No…Yes…Maybe…I don't know okay? First it was the kids, and the psychos, and I realized how much red I've got on my ledger, Taylor!"

"Clint, didn't I tell you four years ago that I didn't _care_ about that? I don't care about your red, not about Natasha's, nor anyone else's."

'"You're too good for me, you know that?"

I allow a small grin to appear on my face. "So you've said."

"Seriously," I hear a scarping noise as Clint drags a chair over next to me and plops down in it. "I don't deserve you."

"Don't _say_ that," I hiss. "That sounds like a break up line. And unless we're already broken up…"

" _Hell_ no," he asserts quickly, then pauses. "Unless _you_ want to be?"

I shake my head violently, and I see him grin, relieved, out of the corner of my eye. "Good."

"I still don't know why," I admit. "Why?"

My boyfriend falls quiet for a long while before finally answering, "The psychos. Mr. and Mrs. Blaydon."

"Are those their names? I've just been referring to the as _the psychos_."

Clint chuckles softly before becoming serious again. "I researched them. They were happily married for six years before today. I turns out the mister is an ex-KGB operative, with a 300 kill-number. A doctor diagnosed him with paranoid schizophrenia, but he refused to see anyone or take anything for it. He injected him wife with a serum that pretty copied his own disease, and they both killed their children today." I hear him swallow thickly. "Little Brandon and Elsie."

I swipe a hand across my eyes and banish the images of _blood, bone fragments, oh god a **finger**_ -

I shudder and turn around to face him. "Stop torturing yourself, Clint. Stop drawing parallels."

"But don't you _see_?" he begs, staring up at me with tears – _tears_ – welling in his beautiful grey eyes. "I could snap at any moment! I could hurt you, and what if we have kids?! I don't want to end up like them! I don't want you hurt!"

"So your solution was to push me away?" I ask incredulously. "You should've know your _brilliant_ plan would never work."

"Yeah, well," he smirks, "you are clearly the brains in this outfit."

I turn sideways to look at the moon. "You're not going to, by the way."

"Not going to what?"

"Turn out like him," I clarify. "You're not going to snap, Clint; you're stronger than that."

"Am I?"

"Yes." I nod sharply. "You are. And I promise that I knew what I was getting into when we started dating. That also applies to marriage, should that ever happen. Marriage is just the more grown up, more responsible cousin of dating."

He snickers softly and leans forwards against the railing,]. "But what about-"

"And _if_ we ever have kids – can you imagine me pregnant?" I pause. "No, don't answer that. But whatever – if we ever end up with a kid somehow, I'm not going to lie; the poor kid will be the _farthest_ thing from normal, because, um, have you met us?" He laughs, and I grin as I continue. "But they won't be hurt by our hands. They're going to be the baby of the team, even more protected than I am."

He gives me an amused look. "Baby of the _team_? There something I should know?"

I roll my eyes and whack him on the shoulder. "I'm sorry too, you know."

"Huh?"

"I overreacted," I admit. "I pushed you over the edge, I nagged you, and then when you blew up I blew things out of proportion and ran."

He gives me an easy smile and presses a soft kiss to my temple. "It's alright. Besides, Bruce said this was healthy."

"Darcy said the same thing," I agree. "Something about true love and butterflies…"

We both wrinkle our faces in disgust, and I manage to go ten seconds before bursting into laughter. "We…we are idiots."

"I beg to differ, 198," he teases, brushing his fingers over just where he knows I'm ticklish.

"Stop, stop!" I squeal and shove him away, laughing. "So we're good?"

"We're good," he promises, pecking me on the cheek. "Now, who's going to explain this to your dad?"

"I'll do it…" I sigh. "Tomorrow. For tonight, go find a guest room, and remember that Jarvis is _always watching_."

He shivers. "Oh, I have no doubt that you'd filet me if I tried anything."

"Good," I smile smugly. "Goodnight."

"Good morning," he corrects, leaning in to give me a kiss.

"Yeah, yeah," I wave him off and watching him go.

* * *

 _We were good. We were okay. We weren't going to fall apart – not because of this. We were stronger than that, if we didn't know it._


	20. Eruption (Disruption Part 2)

**Eruption (Disruption part 2)**

Tony's POV

You would think that, after six years of being a superhero, I would get used to the harder (bloodier) cases. Desensitized, if you will.

You would be wrong. Dead wrong.

About as _dead_ as those two kids, killed by their own parents.

It's normally the cases with kids that get the most reaction out of me; every single time I see some psycho ranting about how their child is evil, disobedient, etc., all I can think about is my own daughter and _how could you do that to your own child? Why?_

It's one of the few things my brain cannot – _will_ not – grasp. Right up there next to magic.

So, after that particularly draining mission, I found myself following my usual routine: lab, metal, music, and a light whiskey. For now.

And then the music got interrupted by a smooth British voice. _"Sir, I felt it necessary to alert you to the altercation happening in Mr. Barton's quarters."_

I frown, my brow pinching. Clint wasn't usually much trouble, so an alert to his room usually meant he was hurt or something happened to Taylor, since she hung out in there (far too often for my liking). "What's going on, Jarvis?"

" _I'm not entirely sure, Sir. There seems to be a fair amount of tension surrounding Mr. Barton, and his heart rate and blood pressure are slightly elevated. Miss Stark has followed him into his kitchen and is attempting to get him to talk."_

"And how's that going, J?"

" _Not very well, Sir_ ," the AI admits.

"Are there any weapons in their vicinity?" I ask with bated breath.

" _The nearest weapons ae in Mr. Barton's room. Miss Stark has disarmed herself and left her weapons in the lab just off the landing pad. But sir, might I remind you that they still have the full capabilities of their professions?"_

Meaning that even completely weaponless, they can still beat the crap out of each other. I've seen it happen. "Alright, I'll go check up on them," I decide, pushing out of my chair. "Don't let things escalate too far. Dummy, watch the lab."

I don't know if the robot confirmed or not, because I was quickly out the door and in the nearest elevator, pounding the button for Hawkeye's floor.

I arrive in front of his room, surprised that I can hear their words clearly just a few feet away.

"-would be a hell of a lot easier if you were!" That's Taylor, and I haven't heard her get that angry since the last time she was shouting at _me_. "You're not acting much like the Clint I know right now!"

I pause and tilt my head, catching Natasha - who was leaning against the wall a few feet away, unashamedly eavesdropping, although I wasn't doing much better - and she shakes her head, a silent signal to _stay out of it._

I sigh and give a small nod. _For now._

Clint's shouting now, louder than I've ever heard him and, judging by Natasha's face, than she has too. "Stop saying you know! You know! I get it, genius, you're smart! I get it, I really do! But that's machines – cold, hard, heartless metal-"

 _Is he calling her heartless?!_

"-This is people, and you don't understand! You don't understand people! I do, and you don't! You don't know me; face it, genius-"

 _That's not the first time she's heard that barb._

"You don't know me, and you never will! I don't need your help, Stark-"

 _Oh, they're using last names now._ I wince. _Not good._

"-and I DON'T NEED YOU!"

Everything - and everyone - stops. I can hear a small inhalation of pure pain and I doubt it was Barton, so that means it's Taylor in pain and he hurt my _daughter_ -

"Fine, _Barton_." And then she's speaking, her voice shaking like i've heard it only once before, during the Stane mess when I forced her to press the button that had a 75% chance of ending my life.

And Clint Barton - the guy to which she's entrusted not only her life, like she has for the rest of us, but her heart - has inflicted that same level of pain.

I flinch as the door opens suddenly, a black blur rushing out and almost bowling Natasha over; Natasha's not doing anything, however, because she's quickly gaining on the other figure emerging from the room. "Stop, Clint."

"But she - I need -"

The spider moves to wrap Clint in a firm headlock, simply for restraint, forcing him slowly to his knees. "You can't go after her, and you know that. Besides," she looks up to meet my eyes, "if I were you, I'd start running. In the _other_ direction."

The archer follows her gaze, his eyes widening as they meet mine. He only last about fifteen seconds before tearing out of the headlock and down a side hallway.

 _Brave...right._

I lean back against the wall, plans for revenge already forming in my head.

Because Barton just hurt my little girl…

...and there would be _hell. To. Pay._

* * *

"What are you working on?"

I barely glance up from my contraption. "A death ray. Did you get a hold on Taylor?"

Bruce nods as he settles in a nearby chair. "Yeah, Betty just called her. She's in Malibu."

"I should've known," I groan. "Of course. How is she?"

"Unsure, mostly," he announces. "She's not sure where she stands with Clint."

"Is she mad at Barton?" _Please let her be mad at Clint._

"Clint?" Bruce shakes his head. "No. Nervous, slightly fearful, but mad? Nuh-uh. Although...she _is_ slightly annoyed at you."

I stop and look up at him. "Why? Is it because I was eavesdropping? I'm her father, I can do that." I snap defensively.

Bruce leans back slightly. "Nope, Betty didn't even tell her anything about that. Taylor doesn't seem pleased that you have a shoot-to-kill mission going on with Clint as the target."

"I do _not_ have a-"

"Tony," Bruce sighs exasperatedly, "You're building a death ray and your gauntlets are mere inches away, in ready mode no less. This is a shoot-to-kill mission."

"I wouldn't kill him," I grumble, "too much paperwork."

"Which you have an AI for," he counters. "Tony."

"I _don't-"_

 _"Tony."_

"Fine," I huff, setting my project down. "I won't kill that idiotic, selfish, son of a-"

Bruce gives me a look, and I reluctantly shut my mouth.

"You don't even know the entirety of the situation," Bruce reminds me. "Maybe they weren't even fighting."

"I know enough," I insist stubbornly. "Clint was yelling, and Taylor sounded like she was about to cry. How many times, in the five years you've known her, have you ever known my daughter to cry?"

He pauses for a moment before replying, "Only a few times."

"And most of that is because some douche has kidnapped someone she cares about," I continue. "It's never been because of something someone's said."

Bruce shakes his head. "Tony, you're making mountains out of molehills here. Couples fight, end of story. And Taylor's probably one of the most responsible teenagers in the world: she won't do anything rash, not here."

"But she's-"

"Your daughter," Bruce nods. "I get it. But, Tony…do you trust her?"

"What?" I blink owlishly. "Yeah – yeah, of course I do!"

"Do you trust her to make her own decisions?"

"Yes! She's old enough."

"Then how about you trust her with her own heart too? Like you said, _she's old enough_."

And then he's gone.

* * *

I eventually emerge from the lab around five in the morning, after a text from Bruce that reads: _Clint's gone to Malibu. J's locked the suits,_ and resulted in my phone meeting the nearest wall.

They were more than likely spending the night together. _Without_ supervision. I mean, sure, the had Jarvis, and Taylor treated him like an older brother (because he _is_ older by eight years or so) and would usually - after arguing for a while - do what he suggests (because he _did_ have her best interests at heart), but she also had all sorts of override codes and lockdown codes - "In case he changes his name to HAL," she stated, "or Skynet."

At the time I had just rolled my eyes, shaken my head, and given her the codes, but if there was ever a time to be kicking myself, it was now.

" _Sir?"_ Jarvis speaks up cautiously, _"I have a message from Ms. Stark."_

I sigh softly and look up at the ceiling, leaning back in my chair and linking my hands behind my head. "And?"

" _She said that she is fine, not to worry, and to not come because she and Mr. Barton are trying to sleep and should be back around 1:30 this afternoon, local time. She bids you goodnight and advises you to sleep tonight."_

"Yeah, yeah," I wave her concerns off with a small grin, before catching a smaller detail in that message. "Barton's sleeping too? Like, in the house?"

" _That is what she said, sir,"_ he agrees. _"But, sir, may I offer a solution?"_

I sigh wearily. "Yours might be the first conducive solution all night, J. What do you have in mind?"

" _Trusting your daughter, sir,"_ the AI tells me bluntly. _"Do you, in all honestly, think she would do anything untoward?"_

"Not normally," I concede, then add, "But I was nineteen once too, J."

" _You were, sir, and a very wild nineteen at that,"_ Jarvis agrees. _"But her nineteen is not yours."_

"What do you mean?"

" _Were you partially responsible for the fate of the world at nineteen, sir?"_

"No…?" I trail off uncertainly.

" _She is,"_ he reminds me. _"She is one of seven people that protect the_ _ **entire**_ _world; ergo, she is predictably more responsible than your average teenage girl."_

"All the more reason to do something _irresponsible_ when no-one is watching!" I counter.

" _And what if someone were to break into the house in the middle of the night, sir? Normally, she would have six other responders and could go back to her...business, whatever it may be-"_

I shake the thoughts I _really_ did not need of my daughter out of my head.

" _-but tonight, it will only be the two of them, constituting the need to wake up at a moment's notice. And Ms. Stark knows this, sir."_

"But still!" I insist. "They're alone in the house!"

" _Sir, I-"_

"Mute."

* * *

One twenty-five in the afternoon found me in a plush leather armchair, flicking through an old issue of Forbes magazine with a glass of scotch balanced on the arm of the chair. To a casual observer, I might've seemed relaxed.

There were no _casual observers_ around. I had my gauntlets on the side table and my eyes weren't even on the magazine; they were glued to the clock.

I had suggested – oh, who was I kidding, _ordered_ – the team go somewhere for lunch and not be back by 2:30, at the earliest. I wanted to do this on my terms, in my space, and on my own. That's how I do my best work, after all – where the only brain is mine, and I can factor out all the variables by myself and not have anyone else bringing in surprises.

There would be no surprises here. Because Barton was coming home, and he would pay for...I wasn't even sure anymore. Principle.

A muted ding alerts me to the elevator, and another ding, closer this time, lets me know it's going down.

I take a moment to pat myself on the back for that brilliant pun before grabbing the gauntlets.

They're charged before Barton even has the chance to take two steps out of the elevator.

"Tony! What-"

"Barton. Shut. Up."

"What'd I _do_?"

"Seen Taylor lately?"

"Yeah, actually, I – oh."

"Yeah, _oh_. Now, would you rather be flame-broiled or thoroughly charred?"

"Um…"

Before anyone can do so much as blink, there's movement behind Hawkeye and suddenly Taylor's blocking all shots and her eyes are glacially hard – _daring_ me to keep it up.

Some small part of me thinks she'll be a great mother someday.

That is, if she already hasn't-

 _No. Nope. Not going there_. "Taylor, are you okay?"

"Fine."

"Okay, good. Now, would you mind moving?"

"Why, so you can blast my boyfriend to smithereens?" And that's her challenging voice.

I let out a frustrated huff. "Uh, yeah, pretty much. Now, come on, move."

"No."

I tilt my head to the side, not unlike a dog. "No?"

"Yeah, I said _no_. Not going to let you do what you want. Not here."

"Why not?" I can push back too.

"Aren't I always the variable you don't plan for?" she asks, a cheeky grin climbing onto her face.

I glare at her. "Mostly. But not now."

She sighs and closes her eyes and I give her a half-smug, half-apologetic look, powering up the gauntlets again.

But, as it turns out, she's not backing down, instead moving forward and directly into the line of fire and grabbing my arm, pressing down on the Last Resort button, a switch that manually interrupts the energy flow in the gauntlet.

Just in case the suits were taken and we were incapacitated.

And did I mention her eyes had darkened a few shades?

"Yes, now. Right now. Why don't you trust me?" she asks calmly.

"I do!" I protest.

She gives a slow, small shake of her head. "No, you trust my abilities. My _ability_ to go out in the field. My _ability_ to create something weird and out of this world and absolutely brilliant. My _ability_ to be your support system. But not _me_."

She keeps one hand on the interrupter as the other reaches around to release the gauntlet, pulling it off my arm and repeating the motion with the other one. "Calm down. Nothing happened. Everyone's fine."

And my mood brightens a little bit at the fact that she's not mad enough to let me worry (and it seems she never is) and at least she gives me that much before leaving the room quickly.

* * *

I apologize, after dinner that night, with an authentic DeLorean engine, just like in the movies, from 1982, right at the peak of production.

Her eyes – back to a bright, electric sapphire – light up when she sees it, and all may not be lost.

I sigh as I lean forward onto a stray ex-computer cart. "I'm sorry."

Her hands pause from where they were already exploring the motor as she twists to look at me. "You didn't do it necessarily on purpose. But…I don't understand _why_."

I give an amused huff. "You won't understand until you have kids one day – and that won't happen for a while. If you have a daughter, somewhere in the future, I can guarantee that Clint will do the same thing the first time she fights with her boyfriend."

She pauses, sitting back on her haunches and looking up at me. "Scarily enough," she whispers softly, "I could've easily seen that earlier."

I grin and shrug. "I've been preparing for that ever since I saw your first sonogram."

"Really?" she perks up with childish excitement at the rare mention of my life pre-her. "Wow."

"Mhmm," I nod. "Although, I also planned tea parties and tutu's not…"

"Car engines and grease?" she supplies, shrugging at my confirming nod. "Too bad, so sad, and I'm not sorry at all."

I laugh at all my genes shining through in that one sentence. "Wouldn't expect you to be. What did you when you were little?"

"'Only apologize if you really, truly mean it. Otherwise, you have done nothing wrong, and the world can bite you.'" she quotes me with a genuine grin. "Was that really the best advice to give a three year old?"

I shrug. "You were starting school. Figured you needed it."

She shakes her head in fond exasperation and returns to the engine, her face smoothing out as she focuses on it entirely.

I take a moment to simply watch her through half-lidded eyes; for once just relishing in the fact that she wasn't being shot at, this wasn't a battlefield, and nobody was panicking.

I watch her as grease gets streaked up her arms and across her face, reflecting, for a moment, about how much she really does look like me. I know people point it out all the time, but she honestly does look like me: my hair, my chin, my eye shape, my nose.

"What're you looking at?" I blink at her as she's suddenly staring at me, grease streaked – somehow – down one side of her nose.

I shake my head and toss her a spare rag. "Nothing, kiddo, nothing."

* * *

 **I was going to make this Tony and Taylor talking more about the future (specifically Clint + Taylor kids) but then I realized I'm making her grow up a little too fast for my tastes.**

 **Please remember that, all the way back in Iron Beta, I created her at fifteen.** _ **Fifteen.**_

 **And then I made her eighteen, then nineteen…I can't make her grow up much more right now. It's making me feel old.**

 **So, no kids or marriage just yet.**

 **Please review and favorite and follow!**


	21. Visitation Rights

**Please read Iron Beta 3 and my one-shot Her eyes, My Everything before reading this or else it'll make no sense.**

* * *

" _And you're still sure you want to do this? It's not too late to back out, you know…"_

"It's a little late for that now," I sigh, "given that I'm in the car and a few minutes away."

" _Tell Happy to turn around!"_ Dad suggests. _"And tell him if he doesn't, I'll hoard his paychecks for a month."_

In the front seat, Happy raises his eyebrows at me in the rearview mirror. I give a small shake of my head. "Happy, no. Dad, I'll be alright."

" _Taylor, she's kind of-"_

"I _know_ ," I cut him off with another sigh. "I need to do this. You get that, right?" I plead.

There's a slight pause before a long exhale on the other side. _"I do. I understand. Do you know what time you'll be back?"_

"They'll only let me talk until," I check my watch, "two thirty. If I'm not back by three thirty, at the very latest, find me."

" _Will do,"_ he agrees. _"And don't forget about the team dinner at six. Phil's making pork chops!"_

I grin, glancing over as Happy catches my attention and alerts me that we were almost at our destination. "Sounds good. I got to go, we're almost there."

" _Alright. Good luck, kiddo. You can do this."_

"I hope so," I sigh, pulling the phone away and hitting the disconnect button, slipping it into the pocket of one of my older, faded brown leather jackets as Happy pulls up in front of the building and puts the car in park, coming around to open my door. "All set, ma'am?"

"As set as I could possibly be, Happy." I give him a small, hopefully reassuring, grin. "I'll see you in an hour?"

"I'll be waiting," he nods, and I return his nod before turning towards the building and heading towards the doors, which are labeled with the building's name: _Facility Omega._

It was a prison – SHIELD's, to be exact.

It was home to SHIELD's top villains; it contained people like Emil Blonsky: the Abomination, possibly Magneto, Stillwell, Alexander Pierce: ex-leader of HYDRA (the second time, not the 1940's) and I was pretty sure they also had the remains of Stane and Vanko in here somewhere, but that's not something I wanted to specifically find out.

Not today, anyways, because today I was here on a mission to see one villain and one villain only: Steel.

I was visiting my mother.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts and remove my sunglasses as I approach the security check in. They've got a rental scanner, a fingerprint scanner, a scanner that checks your blood type, and _then_ –after all that – you have to undergo a metal scanner and security like you would at an airport.

I go through the first part without complaint, but I get to skip part two with just a flash of my Avengers ID – essentially a card proclaiming that _'hey, I'm a slightly paranoid dangerous person, and you aren't getting my gun so stop trying already'_.

After I'm verified and checked and scanned fully a guard waves for me to follow him, leading me down a series of purposely unmemorable passageways full of more twists and turns than a contorted pretzel.

Eventually we reach what is possibly the biggest vault-style door I have ever seen.

"She's behind there," the guard – whose nametag reads Wilkins – explains. "The room's sort of divided in half; one side if for you, then there's some bars, and then she's got chains around both ankles and a remote Taser device I can trigger at any time."

I give Wilkins an amused look. "You don't spare any expanse, do you?"

The guard shakes his head. "No, ma'am. Not for this."

I give him a small smile before going completely serious and taking a half step forward. "Here goes nothing. An hour, right?"

"Yes, ma'am," he nods, "but someone can always collect you sooner if need be."

I nod, sigh, and motion for him to open the door, hydraulic hinges pulling it open and allowing me to step through before he closes it again, the door closing with a surprisingly soft _thud._

I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a second, mentally bracing myself before I allow them to open again. A slight rattle draws my eyes to the left side of the room, the barred side, where Steel – I can't call her my mother – resides. I quickly notice the chains Wilkins was talking about; they look to be three feet long, which would give her about fourteen foot moving space, which is just about the size of her 'cell'.

"What are you thinking of?" a soft voice asks, and I purse my lips and slowly lift my head to look at the figure sitting on the cot – raven black hair that reaches mid-back and looks knotted like mine does when I get it dirty (which is often), and blue eyes that look just like mine.

I point at her chains. "I was calculating the area of the semi-circle in which you can move."

She gives me an unreadable half smile. "You are Tony's daughter."

"And how would you know that?" I can't help but ask softly as I go to lean against the opposite wall, a completely bare white surface.

"I knew Tony," she points out. "You act just like he did."

I shrug and allow myself to slide down the wall. "That's what everyone says."

"Everyone?"

"The team," I clarify. "Steve, Bruce, Thor, Natasha, Dad – Tony – and Clint."

She must've noticed the slight lift in my voice when I mentioned my boyfriend, because she gives me an inquisitive look. "Clint? Have you mentioned him before?"

"To you?" She nods, and I shrug. "I might've, I don't know. Last time I saw you, we were kind of fighting for our lives against your organization. I wasn't about to play kissy-face with my boyfriend." She doesn't raise to the obvious bait, and I huff before continuing. "But yeah, my boyfriend. Clint Barton. We've been dating for about fourteen months now." I allow a small smile onto my face.

"Congratulations," Steel says carefully, uneasily.

I flatten my lips into a thin line. "Here's hoping my first serious relationship turns out better than my father's."

She suddenly becomes very interested in the floor. "I'm sorry for that, by the way."

I raise my eyebrows. "Sorry for what?" I ask calmly. "Sorry for walking out of my life when I was barely _hours_ old? Sorry for almost killing my entire team – whom, by the way, I count as family more than you _ever_ will – when you tried to take over the world a few months ago?"

"Both."

I shake my head and cross my arms. "Sorry doesn't fix everything."

She opens her mouth to protest, but I'm on a roll now. " _Sorry_ doesn't fix the seven thousand and twenty six days of my life you have missed so far. _Sorry_ doesn't fix the drunken mess my father falls into every January 5th – the anniversary of the day you met. _Sorry_ doesn't fix the pain I felt every mother's day until I was old enough to realize that you were _never coming back_."

Steel stays quiet until the end of my little rant, then leans back against the wall of her cell and mirrors my position. "Why are you here, Taylor?"

"How do you know I didn't just come to rant?" I challenge.

She shakes her head, seeing through that just like I knew she would. "You and Tony were never much for trivial pursuits. There's a bigger meaning."

I sigh ask I slip the small box that security let through out of my pocket and fiddle with it. "The 24th of September, 1973. 2:13 pm. What's so special about that date, hmm?"

"It's…my birthday," she replies, tone portraying slight shock. "How did you-"

"Know?" I shrug. "It wasn't too hard. Rebecca Lynn Santiago, born in Los Angeles California. Your parents are named Mark and Juanita, you were a big fan of New Kids on the Block and New Edition when you were seven, and-"

"I get it," she sighs. "You looked me up."

"Well I wasn't going to find out anything otherwise," I snap irritably. "I don't exactly get a thrill out of bringing up the woman my father was going to marry."

Her blue eyes – the ones that she gave to me – widen. "He was going to propose?"

"Before I was born," I nod, schooling my features into an expressionless mask. "Because you were pregnant. And then he found out that you were _horrible_ while pregnant."

"Women go through personality changes while pregnant," she argues defensively. "It's been proven!"

"All that's been proven are hormone imbalances," I counter hotly. "Crying more, snapping at people, getting odd craving for pickles and peanut butter at the most unholy times of the night. You, on the other hand, went almost bipolar. Why did you hate me?"

"I didn't hate you!" she yelps. "Just the thought of being pregnant…it's disgusting." she shudders.

"It is _life_ ," I growl, "get used to it. And yes, you did – by extension – hate me, because that baby was me. You ruined two lives just because you couldn't deal with a change in life that happens to almost every female ever."

"It was a mistake!" she shouts, then her face falls. "Taylor-"

I'm standing in an instant, throwing the little box – punctured with huge air hole so she couldn't use it to suffocate herself or choke or commit suicide in some other gruesome way – through the bars and at her feet. "We're done here. _This_ was a mistake."

"Taylor-" she pleads.

I shake my head and take a step back towards the door. "No, Steel. Happy Birthday. Enjoy your present. I'll be back next year."

" _Taylor_ -"

I ignore her completely as the door opens and I step through with a calmness that's only surface deep, not breaking stride as I quickly exit the building and ducking into the limo. "Happy, home please."

He doesn't say anything.

* * *

Once I'm back on my home turf, I enter the lobby to find the most familiar face in the world leaning up against the reception desk. "Dad."

He quickly wraps me in a bear hug, nudging my head onto his shoulder. "I figured you needed this," he explains simply. "How did it go?"

I sigh and burrow into his neck a little further. "On the bright side, we didn't start yelling until the end."

"And the dark side?"

I pause. "…she didn't tell me anything that wasn't already…said," I say slowly, carefully dancing around the heart of the matter.

My dad sighs and squeezes me a little tighter. "Take everything Rebecca says with a huge grain of salt, kiddo. Like, the size of Mew-mew."

"Mew-mew?" I step back to look up at him. "What?"

"Thor's hammer," he explains. "I'd like to see you pronounce the real name."

I shake my head. "Jane probably can, ask her."

He gives me an amused huff and ruffles my hair. "Come on, the team's upstairs."

"How're the pork chops coming?"

"Fine…" he shifts uncomfortably.

"Did they let you in the kitchen? Is the kitchen still standing?"

"Yes…"

I raise an eyebrow. "In one piece?"

"Kind of?"

I groan as I pull away and jab the elevator button, already preparing to write an apology email to the construction company that was indubitably going to be needed.

This was normal.

I didn't want, nor did I need, anything (or anyone) else.

* * *

 **Quick timeline verification here:**

 **This takes place on September 24** **th** **, the September after the events of IB3, which takes place before July 12** **th** **, which was Clint and Taylor's anniversary.**

 **That's all.**

 **Please, follow, favorite, review, and have a virtual cookie! (::)**


	22. Pompously Circumstantial

Clint's POV

"I don't have anything to wear!" I grumble, shuffling through my closet again. Natasha, who was previously sorting through hair products, leans out of the bathroom to give me an odd look. "No, really!" I continue. "I'm not being a diva, I swear I literally have nothing to wear!"

"You have plenty good suits," she points out. "And plus, I don't think she would care if you showed up wearing a cardboard box – just as long as you showed up. And why do you care so much?"

I give a shrug. "This means a lot to her, Tash, I'd rather look good."

She mumbles something incoherent and moves back into the bathroom.

Today was a really important event in Avengers Tower – well, actually, it wasn't happening _in_ the tower, more 200 miles away in Cambridge, Massachusetts – but it was a big event all the same.

Today Taylor was graduating _summa cum laude_ from MIT as the valedictorian.

Tony, who had been bragging about this fact for weeks, had an Armani suit already picked out and had been rushing around all morning, going over his commencement speech and the travel arrangements. Bruce was split between helping him and choosing a suit for Thor, who, of course, had no idea what he was doing because apparently the only thing similar to this on Asgard was when a guy or girl reached 2000 years old and received their godly name, title, and domain. Steve, thankfully, knew his way around a suit, and there were even some companies still around from the 40's.

Taylor herself was actually in Massachusetts and had been for the past month. I'm told she had been doing the courses virtually for the past four years in order to keep up with the superhero work, but she had to appear on campus to take the final exams and fill out all the necessary paperwork for today's ceremony. The rest of us got a break as well, for she – as VP of Stark Industries – had convinced Steve and Tony, leader and second-in-command of the Avengers respectively, to put us on suspended duty for a month; meaning no meetings but we could still respond to calls because Taylor reasoned that she "wasn't one of the main Avengers and you guys could still go on missions because I kind of need the world to _not_ burn before I get my Master's."

So far, we had gotten lucky.

"Hey, Nat, what do you think I should-"

" _Avengers, you are being requested to assemble on the 45th_ _h_ _floor communal floor for a debriefing, all Avengers please report to the 45_ _th_ _floor."_

So far.

I sigh and grit my teeth as I hoist myself into the vents, quickly making my way into the communal space with a pit stop in my room to grab my bow and redesigned flat quiver, which Taylor had designed for the both of us so she finally had something to wear with her suit.

I step into the communal room just behind Natasha to be greeted by a bunch of annoyed superheroes, all in full uniform except for Tony, who was wearing an MIT hoodie and sweatpants over his black undersuit.

"Take it away, Cap," I sigh, perching on a table.

"Here's hoping this won't take too long. So here's what going on: we've got an alien…blob…thing…in Manchester. It seems like it absorbs everything, and it's mowing down entire neighborhoods. Tony, when to we have to be in Cambridge?"

"3:00, ceremony starts at 4."

"Right, and it's about ten now, so we've got six hours to defeat this thing. Tony, Clint, bring Taylor's gear, just in case."

"We won't be calling her into this." Tony warns defensively, and I nod.

Steve puts his hands up in surrender. "Of course not. I just want her to be ready just in case this thing gets too close to wherever she is. I want her prepared."

"Boy Scout," Tony snorts, but he leaves to go get Beta III anyways. I do the same, grabbing her gear out of the armory and packing her bow case.

We all return to the communal room, and Steve looks at us all before nodding sharply.

"Let's go."

* * *

An hour later, we've arrived on scene, gotten in position, and discovered that this gigantic blob is one tough little (big) SOB.

Bullets didn't affect it, nor did Steve's shield. Tony's repulsors and Thor's lightning burnt it, but the burns instantly healed over. My arrows simply acted like a bee sting: annoying, but only a small sting. Hulk could get a hit on the thing, but the blob just bounced back after all of his punches.

Tony had a plan to take this thing down – find it's center heart or brain and burn it for long enough, it should…I dunno die, melt, cease to exist.

But therein lies a problem – we need someone that's a bit smarter than your average bear to do that, and one genius was a bit busy being shot at and the second was busy, you know, being the Hulk. The third viable option was awaiting her college graduation ceremony, and we weren't going to pull her in until the world started burning or we reached Massachusetts. Whichever came first.

(The other two – Betty and Jane – weren't even brought up.)

" _Can we trap it anywhere?_ " Tony asks desperately. " _I only need a minute-"_

"No," I tell him bitterly, "because guess who's got the nets?"

He groans and there's an explosion on his end of the line before he clicks off again and zooms off, presumably to go find another vantage point.

I take another three shots – an explosive arrow, a poisonous arrow, and an electric arrow – but nothing works.

Until I remember another type of arrow I've got in my quiver; it's newest addition, in fact. "Guys, I may have a way to end this!"

" _Hawkeye, what is it?_ " Steve asks eagerly.

"Taylor made me an arrow right before she left," I explain. "It apparently expels this black putty-like stuff to keep something or someone in place and can't be broken by human means."

" _Okay, what about non-human means?"_

"Um…" I bite my lip. "I don't know. We never got to test it – we were going to and then she got called off."

" _Did she, by chance, tell you what it's made of?"_ Tony asks hopefully.

"No. She never does." I sigh.

I hear him growl in frustration, even though he probably expected that answer. _"Okay…maybe I can access her files. Gimme a sec, someone cover me."_

And then he's gone. I sigh but sight Iron Man anyways, picking off anyone who got too close to the metal suit, which hadn't stopped moving but had ceased it's fire.

Iron Man is quiet for almost another forty-five minutes before I hear his comm unit crackle again. _"Damn."_

" _What is it, Iron Man?"_ Steve asks with a mixture of hope and exasperation coloring his voice.

" _I've taught her well,"_ he admits. _"This is – this is worse than what I've got on the suits! These are, like, Jarvis-level encryptions! What are so important about these arrows?!"_

" _Oh, I don't know, Stark."_ Natasha comments dryly. _"Maybe it's the fact that Hawkeye is a world-famous master assassin that is on the hit list of thousands and she is the_ _ **only one**_ _making his weapons? Those firewalls are the difference between life and death."_

" _Well when you put it like that…"_ Tony concedes petulantly. _"Okay…putty arrows, putty arrows…oh, here. Project 118181523-1621202025."_

He's silent for another minute, then-

" _Oh, this is awesome. I'm so proud of myself for having a genius kid. Alright, Hawkeye, here's the deal: you'll be able to hold this thing, but only if the putty's hot. Fire a slow-burn arrow with the putty one, it should heat it up enough. Also, if you fire two arrows close enough to each other, the putty will merge."_

I nod, and Cap comes back on with a plan. _"Listen up. There's a spot a few blocks away where we can capture this thing, on the corner of Puckett and 34_ _th_ _. Hawkeye, go get in position. Iron Man, Thor, lead this thing over there. We've got four hours left."_

* * *

It took two hours for the thing to move two blocks. _Two. Freaking. Hours._

Apparently Jell-O monsters don't have a sense of urgency.

For the last hour and a half I had been perched on the roof of a Walmart, on top of one of those big silver AC units, humming some stupid song about Spanish capitals.

And then, finally, Steve radios through. _"Hawkeye, confirm position."_

"Confirmed." I draw a putty arrow and a hot one, notching both on my bowstring. "Awaiting your command, Cap."

He's silent for a moment, and I can see the big, gray-ish blob inching through the alley across the street.

" _Now."_

I fire the two arrows towards the building on the left of the alley, then two more to the one on the right; standing back to watch as a black substance bleeds out of the arrows, a slight orange tint to it because of the heat.

The putty doesn't move very fast, but fifteen minutes later a black band is stretched across the mouth of alley.

"It worked," I inform them over the comms. "We've got it cornered."

" _Good."_ I can almost hear Steve's nod. _"Iron Man, find the center. Thor, follow him and aim where he does. Hawkeye, stand by."_

I sit back and relax a tiny bit as I watch Tony and Thor circle the trapped and enraged (I think) beast.

And then Tony stops, above what I thought was it's upper back. _"Found it. Taking aim."_

And suddenly there's a loud clap of thunder, a gust of stormy wind, and a flash of light as Tony's repulsor beams and Thor's lighting hit the same spot, the gelatinous material sizzling and hissing like the most unappetizing bacon ever.

I wrinkle my nose at the putrid smell of rotting eggs the thing was giving off as it disintegrated. "God, this thing needs a shower."

" _As will we all."_ Thor – who had a shock-proof, modified, Stark-made comm in – agrees. _"I do not think that the Lady of Iron will appreciate our presence in our current state."_

"We've got one hour forty-five left," I report. "Add in the half hour flight, plus de-arming and cleaning up, that leaves about a half hour or so. We're cutting it close."

" _We'll be there."_ Natasha assures me. _"Come hell or high water."_

" _We better be."_ Tony grumbles. _"I refuse to let history repeat itself."_

I blink at that, but decide not to go there because it more than likely had to do with Howard, and that was a no-go subject as much as Loki was. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's get going!"

" _Almost done…"_ Tony mumbles. _"Oh, this smells. Plug your noses guys, this smells worse than the time Cap-"_

" _Focus."_ Steve snaps, and I chuckle lightly.

"Yeah, Tony, focus-" I'm cut off in my impression of a stern Steve by a litany of swears coming from Tony.

" _Damn it all – guys! Get to high ground, now! This thing is going to get wet, quick!"_

I watch as the final semi-solid parts of the blob dissolve, watching it all form into a ball of water about the size of the building beside it.

" _Hawkeye!"_ I recognize Natasha's voice. _"A little help here?!"_

I take a step forward and glance over the edge of my building, noticing Natasha standing just below my perch. I quickly grab a grappling hook arrow and attach it to the building, jumping off the building to land next to the Black Widow before hauling us both back up.

We both make it back to the roof just in time to watch a massive wave rush through the streets, Iron Man following the leading edge out, probably to see how far the water would spread.

" _Report!"_ Cap barks.

"Here," I answer immediately. I glance up at Thor, who was hovering about a hundred feet off the ground. "And I have eyes on Thor, he's fine."

" _I'm with Hawkeye,"_ Natasha reports.

" _I'm about two miles out,"_ Tony replies. _"The water will spread for about another half mile. We don't need to evacuate anything, the cops have already got that. Cap, are you okay?"_

" _I'm good. Do we need to clean this up?"_

" _Nah."_ I can almost hear Tony's smirk. _"I called in a favor with an annoying bungee cord of a scientist and his band of merry misfits. We have a graduation to get to."_

* * *

Half an hour later we all step back into the Tower, half of us soaked to the bone (everyone who couldn't fly) and all of us rushing around like madmen (and woman) to get dressed, because it was 2:00 and we weren't even close to being ready.

We all scurry off to our floors to get out of our suits, take showers, and get dressed in what Tony called 'half-formal'.

I peel off my soaking clothes and quickly jump through a shower, shaving and applying a aftershave Taylor has outright told me she liked. I emerge back into my bedroom and blink at the suit laid out on my bed with a note that read _you're an idiot. – Natasha._

I grin and shake my head in amusement.

The suit is a two-piece, double breasted, steel grey suit with a white shirt, shiny black shoes, and a lavender silk tie with a matching handkerchief. She had even included cuff links: a set of the stainless steel Avengers 'A' cuff links Taylor had gotten everyone for last Christmas.

I get dressed as fast as I can, slipping a holster on my right ankle, fitting a knife in the lining of my jacket and a minigun on my hip.

I'm just finishing fastening the last button on my jacket as I walk back out, bypassing the vents to preserve my suit.

The rest of the team has cleaned up nicely; Tony's in a charcoal grey suit with lighter grey pinstripes and a red tie with and Iron Man tie clip, Bruce has gone completely classic with black suit and tie, Steve has a dark brown suit with a khaki shirt and tie, and Thor is looking surprisingly good in a navy blue suit with a silver shirt and tie and Mjolnir cuff links. Natasha's dressed in a green cocktail dress with flowy chiffon half-sleeves. She grins at me. "Nice work."

I roll my eyes. "Thank you, one-who-did-all-the-work."

She shrugs and I go to grab Taylor's bow case off the couch, quickly checking to make sure everything was there before shutting it again and latching it.

"Let's go, let's go…" Tony anxiously waves us towards the landing pad, where the jet was ready and waiting. "2:45, really! You people take for _ever_ to get ready!"

"Calm down." I advise him, then add "Prima donna," quieter.

Tony narrows his eyes at me suspiciously but hurries onto the plane anyways.

The flight there is fairly normal, filled with Tony's chatter about MIT (which I ignored) and Natasha falling asleep about five minutes in.

We touch down not far from the campus, a black Cadillac SUV waiting for us on the tarmac.

"Jarvis, tell Taylor we just touched down and we're on our way now," Tony orders as we all pile into the car, Tony himself taking the wheel and me calling shotgun.

"Does she know why we're not there yet?" I wonder aloud.

Tony raises an eyebrow at me. "You mean does she know about the sentient blob that flooded the Bronx?"

"Yeah."

"No." He shakes his head. "Because if I had told her, she would have worried, and then she would have missed her own graduation to come help us." I start to protest, and he gives me a dubious look. "Don't, Barton, you know she would."

I concede his point with a nod, and silence blooms in the car until Tony's phone chirps, showing that he has a message.

And chirps again.

And again.

And again-

"What the-" Tony grabs his phone and taps a few buttons. "Ohhkaay, she's freaking out."

I perk up. "Taylor? What? Why?"

"Whoa there Legolas." He glances over at me. "She's fine. Just pre-show jitters, if you will. And we're not there yet – Natasha." He hands his phone back to her. "Text her in Russian, that usually calms her down."

Natasha nods and I can hear keys clicking extremely quickly, and I bite my lip anxiously.

"Seriously, Barton." I look over at Tony. "She's alright. She does this before every conference, every expo, every speech…everything. Trust me on this."

I sigh and rest my head against the car window, my nerves easing just slightly.

We pull into the campus parking lot and Tony shows some form of ID to some guard that gets us into a slightly more secluded area.

Tony quickly leads us onto the campus, cutting a quick path towards the building marked 'Auditorium'.

"You guys go find seats." Tony orders once we're inside, passing Natasha some papers. "Someone text me where you end up. I'm going to find my daughter."

And then he's off again, leaving me blinking in his wake. "How much coffee did he have this morning?"

"As compared to his _usual_ amount?" Bruce frowns. "About double."

"That man's going to have a heart attack one day." Natasha grumbles, leading us off to our seats.

It turns out Tony's reserved six seats in the VIP section, which was up on a second level balcony and gave us all a bird's eye view of the entire stage.

The fifteen minutes before 4:00 pass like lighting, and soon enough the lights are dimming and the announcer is welcoming the one and only Tony Stark, MIT class valedictorian of 1991, to the stage for the commencement speech.

"The future minds of tomorrow are bred today." Tony starts. "And the best minds the world has to offer are bred right here, at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. And, bonus, these kids are pretty tough too, because if we're all honest with ourselves MIT is a special kind of hell." He pauses to let the crowd laugh. "Really, though. Two days to work on eight page essays, a month to write a thesis paper…" he shakes his head. "But I suppose that's just how the students see it. When I was seventeen, that's how I saw it. But – and I know I'm going to sound like a hypocrite – now that I have my own sixteen year old here, I know that might not be the case.

"I mean, sure, there are a few bad apples in the sack that just enjoy seeing sleep-deprived college kids writhe in pain, but most of the staff here doesn't actually hate the students." He gives a mock gasp of horror. "I _know_ , right? Absurd! But all the teachers want from you here is _better. Better_ work and _better_ grades, ergo, a _better_ job, _better_ relationships, and a _better_ life. When you're ninety something, and you're looking back on your life, you might forget where it all started, but it all started here. Because these adults want better for you, and you'll want better for your kids, and that's a never ending cycle."

"So remember this hell when you take your first steps in the world, because this pain is all about betterment. Thank you." Tony grins as the audience bursts into applause, throwing up his signature double peace signs as he disappears off stage.

The announcer begins speaking again, introducing the graduating class of 2015, going on to introduce the President of MIT for his speech.

"Hey, feathers, let me through!"

I jump ad twist to see Tony looking at me with an annoyed expression in the half-light. "Sorry," I hiss. "Didn't see you come back."

"Obviously," he grumbles quietly, falling silent as "Ackerby, Emmanuel," is the first to be called across the stage.

I will admit that I almost fell asleep before Taylor's name was called, woken out of my daze by Tony punching my side. "Ow! Hey, what-"

"Shh!"

"Stark, Taylor. Graduating with a Master's degree in mechanical engineering and a second in electrical engineering. Graduating _summa cum laude,_ senior class valedictorian."

A red robe emerges from the crowd, her red and grey heels clicking quickly across the stage as she goes to accept her two diplomas, shake the president's hand, and pause for pictures. Once she reaches the other side she goes to join the throng of newly-made alumni gathering, but she pauses.

She turns her head upwards, her sapphire eyes wide as she searches for something –

No. Some _one._

I give a taxi whistle, not caring who turns to stare, and wave as her eyes find mine and light up. She gives a happy little wave before skipping (Iron Beta, fearsome Avenger, _skipping!_ ) out of view.

Natasha pulls me back into my seat, and after that little burst of excitement the lull continues as the rest of the names are called.

And then, after "Zadora, Tiberius," graduates, the president briefly retakes the stage to congratulate the new alumni before handing the mic off to the salutatorian, who gives a decent speech for about twenty minutes before the president comes back on.

"Thank you for that. Now, please give a warm welcome to the senior valedictorian of 2015, Miss Taylor Stark!"

The crowd bursts into applause as Taylor retakes the stage, waving to the crowd and looking just like her father does around crowds.

She clears her throat, experimentally tapping the mic as she rests her elbows on the podium and clears her throat. "Thank you. You all probably know who I am, even if you didn't go to school with me. You might now me because of what I've done, or because of my dad Tony, who delivered a _wonderful_ commencement speech-" she pauses and glances up at Tony "or, if you've ever been to New York, that really shiny building that _always_ stays on." She gives a small grin.

"But," she leans forward on her forearms, "here's something new: some consider me an oddity. Shocking, yeah? I mean, I'm only graduating college at the age of most high school sophomores, what's so strange about that, right?" she pauses to let the crowd laugh. "But I don't think that. I don't care much either. Because _I_ know I'm a good kid – I've got all I need in life to succeed and make butt loads of money. And so do my former classmates. We've all got everything we need for success – that's from school, teachers, and books. But as for the knowledge on how to use those tools – that came from life itself. And now our new lives are beginning. Here. Now. And we're ready."

She pauses to draw in a breath. "Let's hear it for the class of 2016!"

The alumni raise a roaring cheer as Taylor throws up a hand.

And then, after everything's settled down, the president comes back on, but we're not listening because Tony's led us into a back hallway.

"Dad!" Taylor laughs as she comes rushing out of a side door, dressed in a simple wraparound, form-fitting, sleeveless dress that matches my suit. "Did you see me?"

"Yeah," Tony laughs and ruffles her hair, "heard you too, Miss Rally Cry."

She rolls her eyes at him but keeps the ear-to-ear grin on as she turns to the rest of us, graciously accepting the hugs – even Thor's – and Natasha's "khoroshaya rabota, vypusknik!" ( _Good job, graduate!)_

And then she reaches me.

We stare at each other for a second before I wrap her in a hug that actually lifts her a few inches of the ground, holding her for a second before setting her down and letting go. "Good job."

She grins.

"I'm proud of you," I tell her softly. "And you'll never be an oddity to me."

She nods slowly, and I watch something shift in her expression before she grins again. "I know."

I grin softly as she goes back to chattering excitedly.

 _Today was a really big day in Stark Tower._

* * *

 **Wow.**

 **This is long – over 4,000 words – but I didn't want to split it. Anyone who understands the title is awesome.**

 **So, I hope you guys liked that. When you review this chapter, can you please tell me if you would read a new story I have in the works called** _ **Dissention**_ **? It's my take on Captain America: Civil War and the forecast calls for angst – lots and lots of angst with a downpour of feels.**

 **So just tell me if you would read that, and…yeah! Until next time, readers.**


	23. Thievery in the Tower

**Thievery in the tower**

 **(Christmas part 1)**

" _Da da da, da da da, da da doo…"_

I grin to myself as I slip through the vents of Avengers Tower, sneaking around in a manner that usually wasn't my style.

But I had a mission.

And it was just after 5:30 in the morning, and there was only one morning person in this tower and even _he_ wasn't up yet.

I continue humming quietly to myself as I crawl along, pausing as I reach the grate I was looking for, leaning down to peer through the vent cover slats. I nod to myself, satisfied, as I reach up to unlatch the vent cover.

I hold my breath as it swings open with a creak, swinging my legs into the new open and waiting for everything to settle again before I push off and drop onto the hardwood floors.

My sock-covered feet hit the wood with a soft slap, and I freeze in the middle of the darkened room, listening for any sound of movement.

There is none, so I straighten up again and silently pad over to the only other person in the room: the figure sleeping soundly on the bed.

I smirk at the peaceful, resting state of the other person, reflecting that in a few short moments he will no longer be so peaceful.

I roll up the right sleeve of my black sweater, revealing the slightly metallic glow of my right arm, lustrous even in the dark.

I use my left hand to grab my own wrist and tip my head so that my cheek was resting against my right shoulder. "Detachment Code," I whisper, "Tango-Mike-Sierra-Nine-Nine."

There's a light hiss coming from my right shoulder, like air escaping a balloon, followed by a few soft clicks and then my right arm is no longer attached to my body, being held only by my left hand.

I ever so carefully position my detached arm over the face of the sleeping figure, a slightly evil smirk growing on my face as I adjust the fingers to mimic grabbing their face.

And then I step back, a crooked smile blossoming as I admire my handiwork. And then I sigh.

As much as this was a beautiful sight, I had to move on. I pull another object from my sweater pocket, adjusting my non-dominant left-handed grip before I squeeze it and it lets out an unholy squeal.

"AHHH!" The figure on the bed is suddenly awake with a girlish scream, clawing at my arm as he rolls off the bed and hits the floor with a loud thud.

I, too, hit the ground, but out of debilitating laughter rather than fear. "You should've…seen…your _face_ …oh god….bwhahahaaa…."

There's footsteps outside, and suddenly the room is filled with light.

"What's going on?" A voice – Steve – demands. "We heard screaming. Tony, why are you on the ground with…Taylor's arm? And – why is Taylor dressed like she's in a spy movie?"

This just sends me into a round of fresh laughter as my dad gets up from the other side of the bed and tosses me my metal arm. "Really funny, Taylor. I _love_ being woken up with detached limbs clawing at my face."

I just wordlessly reattach my arm as my giggles finally begin to subside.

"What?" Steve is even more confused now.

"Just a prank, Capsicle." my dad explains wearily. "You can go back to sleep."

"Oh, no you don't!" I jump to my feet. "It's Christmas!"

My dad groans. "You're eighteen, for Pete's sake! Shouldn't you have grown out of this by now?"

"Nope!" I decide cheerfully, marching over to grab my dad's arm and tug on it. " _Please?_ "

He glances at me and sighs. "Fine. Well, it looks like none of us are going to sleep. Steve, will you-?"

"Breakfast." Steve nods. "Blueberry downstairs pancakes in fifteen."

He leaves the room, causing everyone else to sleepily follow, save for Clint – who just looked extremely confused.

It takes me a second to put all the pieces together – my boyfriend was deaf.

 _Wow, genius, took you long enough!_ a little voice mocks.

I mentally shush it and make sure I'm facing the archer dead on. _Good morning_ , I sign. _Sorry about waking you up._

 _No problem_ , he replies. _Did you get it on tape?_

 _You bet I did._ I smirk. _J-a-r-v-i-s, actually._

He grins. _So what's all the excitement about?_

 _It's Christmas!_ I bounce, somehow conveying my enthusiasm in silence. I laugh at Clint's surprised expression. _Breakfast downstairs. Go get your ears on._

He scrunches his face at me, but I just laugh and shoo him out of the room and follow behind him.

Once I reach my own floor, I jump through a quick shower and get dressed in a red sweater with a cute little cartoon reindeer and a pair of MIT sweatpants before heading downstairs, following the scent of pancakes.

I walk into the kitchen to be greeted by a warm sight: all of the Avengers relaxed for once, coffee flowing freely as Steve mass-produces pancakes.

"Good morning," Clint chirps cheerfully as he leans in to give me a chaste kiss. "Again."

"Morning." I grin at him as I walk over and grab a plate of Steve's blueberry pancakes, mine topped with whipped cream and chocolate syrup. I take a seat at the bar/island next to Natasha, who is sporting a black sweater with white detailing and a big white snowflake.

"Thanks for the rude awakening," she comments dryly.

"I've been doing that forever!" I defend. "You aren't used to it by now?"

"You know, 364 days of the year, you're normal." she remarks. "Today, however…"

"Not 364," Clint corrects. "July 12th is abnormal too."

"And I'm never normal to begin with," I shrug, my dad nodding from where he was leaning against the counter, raising his mug in a silent agreement.

They nod and I turn back to my breakfast, inhaling pancakes as fast as I could without choking.

Jarvis speaksup about halfway through breakfast. _"Ma'am, the gifts you requested have arrived downstairs. What would you like me to do with them?"_

I grin, the rest of my teammates all giving me confused looks. "Send them up, J. Do they have all the stuff?"

" _Yes, ma'am. They are on their way up right now."_

I nod and hum happily.

"That was incredibly vague," my dad announces suspiciously. "Anything I should know about?"

"No." I deadpan.

"Have you been ordering explosives again? I we agreed you'd stop."

"It was _one time!_ " I whine. "That was a phase! And I-"

The ding of the elevator cuts me off, and suddenly four familiar voices fill the room.

"Quit touching my bow, I swear-"

"I wasn't touching your bow, we've already discussed this-"

"Stop it, both of you,before I-"

I watch Bruce, Steve and Thor's faces light up as Jane, Betty, and Bucky walk into the room, Jane and Bucky bickering and Betty looking annoyed. Jane was wearing a red gift bow in her hair while Betty had a green ribbon tied in a bow around her wrist and Bucky was sporting a blue bandanna tied around the shoulder of his bionic arm.

I clear my throat. "Hey guys…guys!"

They all freeze and look over at me. "Oh."

I snort and lean back as Bruce, Thor, and Steve rush past me to enthusiastically greet their respective girlfriends/Bucky.

"Lady Jane!" Thor booms as he wraps his girlfriend in a bear hug. "I was not expecting your arrival."

Steve and Bruce echo him, all their companions staying silent and staring at me.

"What?" I defend against nine pairs of curious eyes. "I didn't do anything!"

Clint just raises an eyebrow and gives me that look that says _I love you but we both know you suck at lying._

"Fine." I huff. "I might have invited Bucky, Jane, and Betty here as Christmas presents for their boyfriends."

Clint beams at me, ignoring Bucky and Steve's cries of "We're not dating!" as he presses a warm kiss to my temple. I can also see my dad looking at me with a mixture of pride and _I'm impresses you managed to slip this by me._

I graciously accept hugs from Bruce and Steve, ducking out of Thor's and opting to pat him on the arm instead because as much as I liked the big guy, I didn't feel like spending Christmas with broken ribs.

I glance around the room at everyone, searching until I see the Christmas tree that had been in the corner for the last month.

"Can we open presents now?"

* * *

 **So I'm putting out a series of Christmas one-shots, at most five.**

 **HollyJollyRussianAssassin and I are kind of doing the same thing and I've read hers, you should go read it. Along with the rest of her work, it's all really good.**

 **Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it, and if not happy December 25th!**


	24. Gifts and Lip-locks

**Gifts and Lip-locks**

 **(Christmas part 2)**

After everyone was finished with their breakfast, we all slowly migrated to the living room and settle into a rough circle, with Jane and Thor taking a couch, Clint and I taking a love seat, Natasha sitting at my feet, Bruce in a recliner with Betty perched on the arm, Steve, Dad, and Bucky taking an armchair each.

I grab the first gift, a red wrapped box with a black bow, meaning it was for Natasha. Instead of using name tags, because apparently my dad and I couldn't be trusted not to write embarrassing nicknames, we just wrote who it was from and color-coded the presents based on intended recipient. Red with black ribbon was Natasha, red with gold ribbon was Dad's, blue with red ribbon was Steve's, silver with red ribbon was Bucky's, green with purple ribbon was Bruce's, green with silver ribbon was Betty's, light blue with silver ribbon was Jane's, purple wrapping with silver ribbon was Clint's, and purple with no ribbon was mine.

(Apparently the over ten rolls of wrapping paper and over twenty spools of red and silve ribbons came out of Stark Industries bank account for, and I quote, "team building activities.")

I pass the present down to Natasha, who takes it and opens it to find upgraded Widow Bites, with double the voltage of her last ones.

I reach forward and pat her on the shoulder. "I really hope they work, we had to fry an entire farm worth of pigs to test those."

"Is that why you both suddenly wanted pork for a month?" Steve asks, looking a bit green.

"Um..." I squirm in my seat and shrink slightly. "Maybe?"

He squints at me, but thankfully I'm saved from his scrutiny by my dad shoving a present at him.

I relax as Steve hesitantly lets it go, ripping open his present to find a small box containing a single index card. "What's this?"

"Contact information." Natasha explains. "For one ex-agent Sharon Carter, a Donald Dugan, a Macy Jones, Jules Mortia, Jim Montgomery, and a Jacquline Dernier. I'm not kidding," she adds at Steve's suspicious look, "I swear. All the kids of your old team. They're all really big Captain America fans."

"It's from me too," Clint adds. "You might not be able to bring them back, but at least you can find their kids."

I watch as Steve begins to blink rapidly. "Guys..."

"Oh, no you don't." Clint bolts from his seat, ending up perched on the back of the couch and using me as a human shield. "Don't you dare cry on us. I do emotions about as well as Robot Sr. and Robot Jr."

I reach behind my head and, aim true as always, flick his forehead.

Natasha sighs. "Sit down, will you? Steve, you're welcome. Are you okay?"

Steve nods, swiping a hand over his eyes. "Yeah...yeah, I'm fine. Thank you."

She grins at him and grabs the next present, a green one with purple ribbon. "Bruce?"

He takes the present and studies it for a while. "Is it going to explode?"

I roll my eyes and pout. "Geez, you rig _one_ box _one_ time..."

My dad crosses his arms. "Ye of little faith."

"I have complete faith...in your ability to blow crap up."

I chuckle as Bucky sighs exasperatedly and sits beside Bruce in a crouch. "Here. Now, if it explodes, I tackle you and all is well."

Bruce glances at him as he finally begins to carefully unwrap his gift, still not trusting my father or I. Once's he's finally unwrapped it fully, he pulls out a keychain of a die cast metal fist, with Dr. Robert Bruce Banner engraved on the underside and One and the Same on the other side. "Was this Tony or Taylor?"

I raise my hand. "Guilty."

He grins at me. "Thanks for accepting the Other Guy enough to give me this."

I give him a small grin and nod. "The only thing to fear is fear itself." I laugh as everyone groans, Clint face palming and giving me an odd look.

Bruce shakes his head at me before grabbing the next present, a light blue one. "Jane, this is from Taylor."

Jane grins and takes the box, quickly unwrapping it to find a little black device about the size of a GameBoy, with a small screen, a blue button, and a green button. "Um...thanks?"

I snicker. "You can talk to it, you know. Press the green button."

She pokes the button as instructed, gasping at the device hums to life, the screen lighting up with a message that says _Hello, Dr. Foster._ "Wow..."

"That's not all," I continue. "Tell it the name of a planet, galaxy, star, anything you want."

"Okay." Jane looks thoughtful for a moment, before apparently deciding and announcing "Andromeda Galaxy."

The device buzzes as her choice shows up on the screen. "Now press the blue button."

She does, and a blue hologram of the galaxy show up in the air above the device. Jane's jaw drops. "I...I...you..."

"No need to thank me," I say sarcastically.

She rolls her eyes at me as she tucks the device away, probably for further investigation later.

Steve reaches over and grabs the next present, this one for Bucky, who rips it open eagerly - the feared ex-HYDRA assassin's face the epitome of excitement.

He pulls out a set of knitting needles. "Okay, who found out?"

Steve laughs and raises a hand. "I didn't find out, I remembered," he corrects. "Do you still knit?"

Bucky nods and quickly grabs Steve in a hug that looks like it forced the air out of even the super soldier. "Thank you, thank you, thankyouthankyouthankyou-"

Steve gently pulls Bucky off. "You're welcome, bud."

"You can knit?" I question curiously.

Bucky actually blushes and nods timidly. "Yeah...back when this punk was sick all the time, I would be at his bedside for days at a time, and his Ma had a knitting club. She taught me, and it turns out I was actually pretty good at it."

"You gave me the ugliest sweaters for years." Steve groans mournfully, Bucky reaching over to whack him on the shoulder.

"I think it's a good idea," Natasha announces. "It's a nice talent to have."

And then all criticism of Bucky's slightly-outlandish hobby comes to a dead halt, because nobody dares contradict the Black Widow, for she will mess you up.

I hide a laugh at everyone's expressions behind a hand as I reach over to grab the next gift, which was going to Betty.

Betty tears off the wrapping paper to find a manila envelope containing multiple restraining orders, cease and desist orders, and many other measures to keep her, Bruce (and Hulk), and the rest of us away from General Thaddaeus "Thunderbolt" Ross, because I've heard he's had his eye on Steve in the past and I don't doubt that Clint's eyesight is a point of interest for the twisted general.

"This says you're all 'hereby under the official protection of Stark Industries and the affliliated Avengers, including the secondary group of Doctors Jane Foster, Elizabeth Ross, and Ms. Darcy Lewis.'" Betty reads shakily.

"He can't find you now," my dad assures her gently. "There isn't a dark corner we can't see."

Betty notes her lip, the room falling silent as she regains her composure, Bruce giving her arm a light squeeze.

After a few minutes, Betty grabs the next gift and hands it to me.

Before unwrapping it, I check it carefully for any signs of movement, vibration, heat, or anything else suspicious. Finding nothing, I eagerly open it to find a box of car accessories: a leather steering wheel cover, seat covers, and floormats; all designed purple and black, with the Greek letter beta that I had adopted as my logo a few years ago.

I laugh. "I love them."

"We thought you would." Jane is grinning, motioning between herself and Betty. "Darcy, too. Anything to feed your narcissism."

"винт вас тоже!" I reply. Jane just looks confused as Natasha and Clint burst out laughing.

"Okay then..." Jane scoots away from, partially hiding herself behind Thor.

I laugh and grab a gift, one with gold ribbon, and pass it to my dad.

He grabs the gift and unwraps it with childlike eagerness to find a piece of paper. "Really?!"

I reach over and glance at the sheet, taking out my phone and entering the coordinates, flipping the phone around to show him what comes up.

"A. E. Stark Coffee Production?" he looks up at me. "I have a farm?"

I take a moment to laugh at his dumbstruck expression before nodding. "Yeah, we bought you a farm."

"We?"

"Well, Natasha went to Vienna and found the land, Steve convinced the previous owners to sell it with his 'good old America's Golden Boy' charm, Bruce and Betty made sure the coffee would actually grow healthy, we've got Thor making sure there's never a drought, and I hired everyone and bought the land and tied up the loose ends." I explain, pointing to each Avenger as I explain their part.

Dad raises an eyebrow. "And your boyfriend was doing what?"

"Well he _wanted_ to kidnap you and take you to your new farm," I admit with a glance at Clint, who suddenly became very interested in his slippers, "but we didn't want either of you to end up dead or in jail - again - so I just forced him onto the jet with Natasha."

My dad nods, leaning away from Clint. "Oh. Well...thanks. I, uh, really-"

"I know." I cut him off. "Stop before you hurt yourself."

He nods, sending me a grateful look as he relaxes back into his chair, grabbing the next present and handing it to Clint. "Feather brain."

Clint huffs but takes the box anyways, carefully checking it over before opening it and pulling out a wooden arrow with a stone tip and reddish-tan feathers.

"They are hand-crafted arrows, Friend Hawk!" Thor explains in his ridiculously loud voice. "Made from the finest hands on Asgard! The feathers are chosen from the tail of the Rødeøynefugl!"

Clint gives Jane a questioning look.

"Red eye bird," Jane explains. "Equivalent to a hawk."

Clint nods with an 'oh' expression. "Thanks, Pickachu."

Thor doesn't seem to mind the nickname, instead just clapping my boyfriend on the shoulder hard enough for him to gasp and slump into me.

I allow Clint a moment of recovery from that encounter before nudging him up to grab the next present and give it back to Thor, who doesn't bother with caution, instead just ripping the package in half.

"Good thing that wasn't fragile," I murmur to Clint.

"Give me one good reason why we would give Thor something fragile," he returns, just as quiet.

Thor's device is a softball-sized sphere with a padded outside and a small screen. "What is this mysterious object?"

 _"Hello, Prince Thor."_ the device hums.

Thor drops the ball, but it just bounces once before lying still. "It spoke to me!"

I nod and reach over to pick up the red ball, handing it to the god. "Ask it a question."

Thor blinks. "What is your name, mysterious device?"

 _"I am Jarvis, Price Thor."_

Thor glances at the device, and then the ceiling, and then the device again. "But Friend Jarvis is in this tower, is he not?"

"Yeah," I nod, "but he's in there too. You can ask him any question you want, Shakespeare, and he'll answer you."

"Thank you, Lady Stark!" Thor booms, wrapping me in a crushing hug before I can politely refuse. "You have give me the gift of knowledge of your home!"

"Yeah...okay...Thor," I gasp out, "I...cannot...breathe..."

He lets me go, and I fall bonelessly into Clint. "My apologies, Lady Stark."

I can just nod wordlessly.

The gift giving goes on for a while after that; with Natasha giving everyone a personalized knife, Steve getting a gun with a bigger handle to fit his hands, Betty, Bruce, and Jane each getting a new book on their professed subjects, Dad and I getting a new set of tools, and a few other small gifts.

Around noon, Bruce, Jane, and Steve all get up to make lunch. Clint grabs my hand and pulls me down a darkened side hallway.

"What are we doing?" I ask.

Clint doesn't reply, instead just giving me a heart-melting grin and pushing a small jewelry box into my hands. "Merry Christmas, sparrow."

I suck in a breath as I stare at the box in my hands, gingerly pulling off the purple ribbon and peeling off the wrapping paper. "You didn't have to-"

"Of course I did," he snorts, leaning against the doorway. "Come on, open it!"

"Alright, calm down." I mumble. Once I finally get all the paper off, I open the dark purple velvet box and gasp.

Nestled in the fabric is a necklace; the pendant being an onyx stone about the size of Clint's thumbprint with a gold heart in the center and a matching, slightly raised, edge. Engraved on the necklace is tiny words, too small for the naked eye to read.

"It's I love you in 120 languages." Clint explains in a hushed tone. "Wǒ ài nǐ, je vous aime, ich liebe dich, ti amo, se agapó..."

"я люблю тебя." I cut him off with a chaste kiss. "I'm a lucky girl, you know that?"

He says nothing, just giving me an endearing look. He glances up at the doorway above us. "Look up."

I glance up, grinning as I see a sprig of mistletoe.

"Merry Christmas." Clint whispers just before slamming his lips to mine in a searing kiss.

I internally smile as I wrap my arms around his neck, his own arms hugging my waist and lifting me up a few inches to stand on my tip-toes.

The kiss deepens quickly, his tongue probing my lower lip seeking entrance which is soon allowed, our tongues writhing in a battle for dominance as his grip on my waist tightens and he walks me back against the nearest wall as I shift closer to him, pressing our bodies flush together as I tilt my head to allow him better access and slide my hands down to trace the neckline of his navy blue sweater.

We only break apart when we both become dizzy for lack of air.

I pant heavily as I lean my head back against the wall with his arms still around me, staring at my boyfriend; taking in his dilated pupils, nearly hiding all of his grey irises, and red, kiss-swollen lips. I grin. "That was fun."

"No kidding," he chuckles breathlessly. Clint leans down to give me one last, lighter kiss before letting me go and bending down to pick up the dropped jewelry box. "Here."

"Can you put it on me?" I ask, and he nods. I turn around and let him drape the necklace around my neck, clasping it and setting it down, but not before dropping another sneaky kiss onto my neck.

I blush slightly as I turn back around, fixing my sweater and the necklace, it's gold chain glinting in the light I give a soft smile before giving Clint a hug before leading the way back to the living room to find the other Avengers and their girlfriends/boyfriend (I was convinced, even if Steve wasn't) animatedly moving around my room.

My eyes find the source of the excitement: as usual, my father, who was standing in the middle of the room with...a microphone in his hand?

"Hey, where have you been? Wait, no, scratch that, I don't want to know. Oh, we're about to start karaoke! Come on!"

"Oh, _no_."


	25. MAJOR AUTHOR'S NOTE

**Major Author's note! Important!**

 **As of today, it has one year since I started writing my first book,** _ **Iron Beta: Life as Tony Stark's Daughter**_ **. One year.**

 **I would like to give a huge thank-you to every person that's ever reviewed, favorited, or followed any of my stories, because there's actually quite a lot of you and you have** _ **no idea**_ **how much I appreciate all of you.**

 **And now, a quick update.**

 _ **Iron Beta**_ **'verse (canon!Avengers):** _ **Dissension**_ **, the latest story in this verse, is coming along smoothly. I am accepting requests for one shots, please PM me if you have a request. And keep reviewing, following, etc.**

 _ **Saved by the Bell**_ **'verse (teacher AU Avengers): consider this verse on hiatus because my muse for that story died. Sorry for all of you that liked that story, but I am taking requests for other AUs as well. PM me or review with an AU idea.**

 _ **Whispers in the Dark**_ **(canon!Harry Potter): this should be getting updated fairly smoothly. The only problem I have with this is that fact that I am literally getting almost no reviews. Do you guys not like this? What's your stance? PLEASE TELL ME.**

 **If anyone has any questions, comments, concerns, suggestions, or the like, please PM me, review, or email me at ironsparrow99 [at symbol] gmail . com.**

 **Thanks,**

 **IronSparrow99.**


	26. In a Coffee Shop

**Ta-da! Here's the first post-Dissension one-shot! You'll have to excuse Coulson if you think he's OOC – this is my first time writing him.**

 **Mentions of Steve/Bucky pre-slash – don't like, don't read.**

* * *

 **Plymouth, United Kingdom**

Coulson's POV

The little bell above the door of the quaint little coffee shop jingles as I pull the door open, blinking at the change in lighting level and the smell of expensive English coffee and tea.

It felt nice to get off my feet for once – I wasn't here for a stakeout, mission, or covert op of any kind; right now I just wanted my afternoon cup of coffee. And I deserved it, too – in the past six months, I had been all over the world doing classified things in places so classified _I_ didn't even get to know where I was.

And this was _without_ SHIELD, mind you.

I step into line behind another patron, glancing up at the menu and being to contemplate how I would caffeinate myself this afternoon.

Until, suddenly and without warning, someone tries to cut in behind me, sending me stumbling into the person in front of me, nearly taking both of us to the ground. "Sorry, ma'am, didn't see you there."

"Oh, it's no problem-" She turns around and freezes, looking like a deer caught in headlights. A familiar pair of intense blue eyes staring back at me. "Phil?"

"Taylor?" I blink. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I could ask the same," she returns. "Come on, I've got a table over here." Without waiting for a reply – that seemed to be a family trait – she loops an arm through the crook of my elbow and tugs me over to a table in the corner across from the counter. It's been obviously chosen for a reason, if you know what to look for – the table's got a good view of all the exits and most of the restaurant as well.

Taylor slides into the seat across from me, giving me my first good look at her. She's wearing the epitome of 'respectable business formal': a form-fitting navy coat dress with simple navy heels and small gold hoop earrings. Does she look comfortable? No. But she does command respect, so I figured that's what she wanted. "So what brings you to England?" she asks, propping her chin on one palm.

I give a breathy laugh. "Would you believe if I said I'm taking a break?"

"A break? _You_? Never," she scoffs disbelievingly. "Not once, in the seven years I've known you, have you ever taken anything resembling a break. What the hell have you been up to?"

I give a shrug. "Even I need to take a vacation after spending nearly nine months chasing illusive criminals across the globe with my maybe-not-ex-boss."

A look of realization appears on her face. "So that's what Pirate got up to after the chips fell," she mused. "I did wonder."

I raise an eyebrow. "Were you worried?"

She laughs and shakes her head. "I'm not stupid – I know you can take care of yourselves. But I did occasionally wonder where you had gone off to." She bites her lip and stares down at her hands, now folded on the table. "We could've used you."

I shake my head. "I wasn't going to fight in the war."

She shrugs. "We could've used your advice, then. Or your common sense. Or your placating nature. You name it, we probably needed it."

"Well excuse me for following my slightly obsessed boss all over the world for three-quarters of a year," I deadpan. "How is everyone, though?"

She sighs and leans back against the vinyl-coated back of the booth. "Well, we're certainly doing better. I mean, a few of us still have nightmares from everything, and the war has joined Howard and Stane and Loki on 'The List of Things We Do Not Talk About', but the Avengers have been fighting strong just like always."

I smile at the note of pride in her voice. "And how are you doing personally?"

She smiles this time. "I'm doing pretty well, actually. I mean, my hand's been sore for a few days – wait, did you find out what happened there?"

I glance down at her left hand, which, thanks to makeup, is currently scar-less. "I was debriefed on everything, yes. It's not too bad, is it?"

She shrugs. "It's a little warmer here than it was back home – not by much, but warmer nonetheless. And I made a heated glove, I just can't wear it in meetings."

I raise an eyebrow. "Meetings?"

She nods. "That's why I'm here, actually. There's a decent number of tech startup companies in the area and Dad and I are trying to win back public opinion after the war. Stocks dropped massively." She's cut off by a chirping sound, and she digs around in a small navy clutch, pulling out her phone. "And speaking of work, that'd be Maria. Give me a second."

"Maria?" I question.

"Yeah," she replies, not looking up from where she was typing out a text on her phone. "Maria Hill. My new PA."

Only years of training keeps the shock off my face. " _Tony_ hired _Maria Hill_?"

"Well, no." She shuts off her phone and drops it back in the bag. "Technically, Steve hired Maria. Dad just decided to carry over her contract. She was in PR until about a month ago, but I needed a PA and she offered, stating – I quote – that 'I couldn't be a worse boss than Fury.'." She grins. "I don't know what that say about me, but she's done a great job so far."

"Good to hear," I nod, then pause. _Should I ask? No. Maybe? Is it appropriate?_

Across from me, Taylor raises an eyebrow. "If you wanted to ask about Steve, Phil, just ask."

I force my blush down. "How'd you know?" I demand.

"You get the same look Dad does when he's talking about Alan Turing," she explains with a small smile. "Steve's doing great – he's really happy that we're all under one roof again. He seems really happy lately, but I think that's because he and Bucky might be dating. I think they have a thing."

"A…thing?" I parrot.

Taylor nods and grins widely, her eyes getting a mischievous twinkle that makes her look at least five years younger. "Yeah, a thing. Like, me and Clint _thing._ That thing. I mean, I'm not sure, but I've caught them cuddling on the couch five times now, and I think they'd make an awesome couple. I ship it _so bad_ ," she gushes.

"They could just be cuddling platonically," I point out, giving her an amused look.

"So why, whenever I ask about it, do they blush and stammer and deny everything?" she counters. "If that's not a crush then I'm stupid. And I'm not stupid."

"I don't know…" I hesitate.

"Come on, Agent," she groans. "It's gonna happen. Steve loves Bucky. Bucky loves Steve."

"Are they even into guys?" I counter thoughtfully.

"You've obviously never met the real James Barnes," she laughs. "He's definitely, irreversibly, completely gay. No question there. I mean, it's not exceptionally flamboyant, but if you know what to look for…"

"And what about Cap?" I question again. "Is Bucky doomed to be in a one-sided relationship?"

"God, I hope not," she grumbles, adding something about hunting and killing captains under her breath. "Personally, I think he's bi. I _hope_ he's bi, anyways, because I've got $200 riding on it."

" _Really_?"

"Hey," she shrugs, "what Steve doesn't know won't hurt me or Darcy. She thinks he's fully gay, by the way."

"Don't forget Agent Carter," I remind her.

"I know!" she exclaims. "I brought that up, but she's convinced it was a fluke." She blinks at me. "Does this mean you ship them?" she asks hopefully.

"Fine," I sigh. "Yeah, I'll…ship them," I admit hesitantly.

She lets out a whoop of excitement, drawing curious looks from people around us. Taylor, however, pays them no mind as she pulls out her phone and types something. "I'll have your shipper t-shirt sent to…" she pauses and looks up at me. "Where?"

I slump slightly in my seat. "Um."

Taylor pauses and sets her phone down. "Phil, do you not have a permanent address at the moment?"

"No!" I yelp, a little too quickly. "I've got safe houses…"

"They don't count," she argues, picking up her phone again. "How long has it been since you've stayed in one consistent place, Agent?"

I choose not to answer, and apparently this is answer enough because the younger Stark mutters a few choice words in Spanish before typing furiously. "You're moving into the Tower. How would you like your floor decorated?"

"Hey!" I protest. "I do not need, nor want, to move into Avengers Tower."

"Too bad," she snaps. "You've been without a home for at least nine months now, Agent. And you're my friend. And I don't let my friends be homeless."

"What about jobless?"

She pauses. "Job, right…suppose you would need one." She pauses, drumming her fingers on the table before her eyes light up and she types something out on her phone. A second later, her phone buzzes. "Oh, would you look at that; Dad's still looking for a PA. Apparently he liked mine so much he wants his own."

"A personal assistant?" I inquire. "You want me to do _secretarial work_?"

"Oh hell no," she snorts derisively. "And I dare you, _I dare you_ , to call it secretarial work to Maria's face. No, I want to essentially wrangle Tony Stark. He needs to get to various meetings on time, fill out loads of paperwork, and be a figurehead for Stark Industries. Coincidentally, he absolutely _despises_ doing all of the above."

"Imagine that," I scoff. "So I would have to babysit him?"

"Again, no," she sighs. "That's the team's job. We make sure he eats, sleeps, and has regular contact with human beings to avoid being an emaciated, sleep-deprived, social pariah. At least, everyone else does. I'm just as bad, really." She pauses before shaking her head. "So you're not babysitting, and you're not being a secretary. I can find the official job description later. But listen, Phil – it pays great, you get to see Steve and Bucky in action, and you get a roof over your head. Why is that so bad?"

I bite my lip. "I'll have conditions…"

"Which we can accommodate, I promise."

I raise an eyebrow, but Taylor just stares back unflinchingly, her eyes boring holes into my skull. I hide a grimace at the knowledge that despite all their goofing off, the Starks really are extremely powerful business royalty that could take over the world, company by company, if they wanted to.

Luckily for the world, they don't have their goals set so high.

"Fine," I sigh. "I'll take it."

And with that, the Vice President of Stark Industries drops the icy glare and reaches across the table to shake my head. "Welcome to SI, Agent. You want to get a coffee to celebrate?"

I let out a light laugh at the reminder of our original goals here. "Sure."

She nods and gets up to order, coming back with two coffees and launching us into a discussion about her boyfriend and how he's trying to 'woo' her with screwdrivers disguised as flowers and puzzles that spell out cute messages in foreign languages.

She thinks it's stupid (but her blush disagrees) and I think Clint Barton could write a book titled _How to Woo a Genius._

And this is a normal conversation.

Or at least it will be, because my new boss is Tony Stark and I get to interact with superheroes on an even more often basis than I used to with SHIELD.

I just want it to pay off.

(I really hope it works.)

* * *

 **Shout out to RussianAssassin for the Stucky (Steve + Bucky) fangirling session above! I loved writing that.**


	27. Lost and Found

**This one-shot is partially by request of blue-lily295, who helped me get this one restarted after I hadn't touched it in a long, long time.**

 **Given that it's also Mother's Day – at least in the US – this is dedicated to my mom, who has been a huge supporter of my writing since day 1.**

* * *

I slide into the limo and slam the door shut with a groan.

"Drive, Happy." I order as I dig through my purse for the Advil I knew I had, with my head pounding from the droning voices and camera flashes I had put up with all day. Today had been one of those days where I was being whisked from meeting to meeting, holding up a relentless schedule with little time for trivial things like eating and resting.

And I was exhausted, just now heading home to the tower at eight pm for the first time since five this morning.

I loosen my stiff, starch collar and shed my blazer, tossing it on the seat next to me and kicking off my heels to exchange them for the sneakers I always kept in the limo for situations just like this one.

Happy glances at me in the rear view mirror. "Busy day, Miss?"

I give him a small smile. "Just like always, Hogan. How many times did Dad call you today to check on me?"

"Only 47," the chauffeur replies casually as he turns another corner and the tower comes into view. "That's better than last time."

"I suppose," I sigh as Happy parks the car and comes around to get my door, because no matter how many times I've told him to _stay put_ and that _I can get my own door, I'm not helpless, thankyouverymuch,_ he still insists on doing it for me.

I highly suspected that my dad had something to do with that.

I grab my jacket and wave to the driver as I head into the lobby of the tower, nodding at the receptionist on duty as I make a beeline for the private elevator and punch the button for the floor Darcy and I share.

As soon as I step out into the mini-living room, I breathe a sigh of relief and can actually feel the tension leak out of my shoulders and back.

But...something felt off. I didn't know what it was, exactly, but the air felt dead, almost. Even with the soundproofed walls on each of our separate floors, the tower was always abuzz with movement, activity, noise...life. Now, however, the air felt strangely still and cold.

I pause with my head tilted slightly. "Jarvis, where is everyone?"

" _Miss Lewis, Dr. Foster, Dr. Ross, and the majority of the Avengers are currently at High Line Park, Miss Stark."_

"Lucky dogs," I mutter. "They get to slack off all day." I drape my jacket over the back of the couch and move into the kitchen in search of food. I manage to open the fridge before something in the particular phrasing of Jarvis' words clicks. "Wait, you said the _majority_ of the Avengers were at the park. Who isn't there?"

" _Sir did not join them at the park this morning,"_ the AI informs me and there's something in his tone bordering on reluctance.

I shrug it off. "He's probably busy or bugging Phil. Is he working on anything, J?"

" _Sir is not currently working on a project, no."_

I narrow my eyes at the nearest camera. "There's a 'but' coming."

There's a pause, and I get the feeling Jarvis would be sighing if he could. I chase away the absent thought of programming that in as he replies. _"Sir is currently heavily intoxicated, ma'am."_

I frown at that. While my dad did still have a hint of alcoholic tendencies, he had honestly gotten a lot better in recent years with the Avengers and other superhero-ly duties to keep him busy; after all, you can't be a stumbling drunk in the middle of a battle.

That being said, there were still a few things that sent him into a slippery spiral – namely getting old and prolonged thoughts about my mother. For instance, the last time I can remember him getting more than a little buzzed was about ten months ago, when SHIELD fell and my mother was revealed to be Steel, second in command of HYDRA. The time before that it was back in 2015, on his fortieth birthday.

Today was not, as far as I could tell, another milestone birthday and he hadn't seen Steel since last June. I tilt my head slightly. "What's so special about today?"

" _It's May 10_ _th_ _, Miss Stark. Mother's Day,"_ Jarvis explains.

I sigh as I close the fridge door. "This is the twentieth Mother's Day since Steel left. Why now?"

" _I believe his actions are partly inspired by your conversation at Compound 394, ma'am."_

"Damn it," I swear quietly. Yes, I remembered our conversation last December; the 28th, to be exact (I think, anyways, dates got fuzzy there). We had held a bonding moment/conversation about heartbreak and how to get over it. Granted, it had mainly been for my benefit, to get over Clint (not that that was necessary now) but apparently it had held some lasting effects.

" _My sentiments exactly, ma'am,"_ Jarvis agrees.

"Where is he?" I demand, already moving for the elevator.

" _His private lab, ma'am."_

I nod and jab the button for the first sublevel, pacing in the small space of the elevator before it digs and the doors open.

Dad's lab is smaller than the main one we shared, about half the size, and it's rarely used; it's mainly utilized for brooding, secret projects, or drinking.

Today it was drinking, and I could smell the scotch from four feet away from the door.

I grimace as I punch in my access code, giving a mental cheer when it works. He must've forgotten to lock me out.

I gingerly step across the threshold and into a dark lab, muting my footsteps as much as I could. "Jarvis," I whisper, focusing on breathing through my mouth. "Lights to 10%."

The lights come on to a dim level, and I squint through the half-darkness at the shape hunched over the workbench, surrounded by empty bottles. "Dad?"

"Whussit."

 _Semi-coherent_ , I note. _That's good._ "What's gotten you into a binge?"

"Missss...nuthin'," he slurs. "Don' worry."

"Like hell I won't," I cross my arms and arch an eyebrow. "Come on, please tell me what's wrong."

"Go 'way."

I just lean back against the wall, careful to avoid the puddle of alcohol pooling just to my left.

"D'you know wha' today is?" Dad asks, back still to me.

"Mother's Day," I ask simply. "If this is about my mother-"

"R'becca."

"-it's been nearly twenty years. You can't wallow forever," I remind him.

"Yes I can," he insists stubbornly, an edge coming out to in his voice and replacing the slur.

The ground was getting thinner. "It's been two decades, please stop this," I plead. "It's not healthy. Just...move on."

"Move on?" He whirls to face me, his bloodshot eyes glaring. "You want me to _move on_?!"

"Life moves on," I state calmly. "You haven't yet."

"I don't have to!" he snaps.

"Yes, you do!" I argue. "It's been two decades! I've grown up! _I've_ cut ties with her! And _I'm_ the child here! Why can't you, as the adult, do the same?"

"You don't get it!" he exclaims. "These are adult problems-"

" _And I am a freaking adult!"_ I scream, finally losing it. "I am nearly twenty years old and I have _never_ appreciated being talked down to, thank you, so quit keeping your _adult problems_ to yourself."

"I don't need you butting into my love life!"

"This isn't _just_ about your love life!" I growl. "She is my mother too, in case you've forgotten."

"You've _moved on_ , remember?" he mocks sardonically. "You don't care."

"About her? Hell no," I scoff. "I'd call it indifference, to be honest."

"She's your _mother_ ," he explains, drawing out the last word. "And you don't care."

I shrug. "I don't know her; she's as much my mother as the hot dog vendor is."

"Her blood runs through your veins," he reminds me snidely. "You are alive because of her."

"I was _conceived_ with her help," I counter. "If it were up to Rebecca Santiago, I would've been dead before the second trimester. You're the one that kept me alive."

"Then thank me by letting me remember her," he demands.

I shake my head. "I can't do that. It's been twenty years since she left. The world hasn't stopped spinning because you're moping over a girl."

"I don't care how long it's been!" he screams. "Don't you get that? _I don't care_! It will never be long enough! I loved her - I can't just forget her! Not like you! I'm not that HEARTLESS!"

I jerk back as if I've been burnt, but he pays me no mind.

"Get out! GET OUT!" he howls, and I don't see the crystal tumbler coming until it clips the top-right of my skull.

I quickly duck and turn on my heel, storming out of the lab with all the finesse of a storm front.

All I felt like doing at the moment was beating the crap out of something, but first I fished my phone out of my pocket and typed out a message, sending it off before my phone gets roughly shoved back into a pocket and I continue on my way.

* * *

Natasha's POV

I step out of the elevator and onto a dark floor, the floor eerily silent.

I had come straight home from the park; the text I had received from Taylor half an hour ago had made sure of that. The message had been short and concise, and probably angrily sent: simply reading _"Dad's drunk, please send help."_ There had been a second one a minute later, almost as an afterthought, with a set of passcodes to the elevator and lab itself.

This was obviously bad - if Taylor, who had been 'wrangling' (as she put it) Tony since she was able to, was pushed past her limit, this was going to be...interesting.

I approach the door to the lab, noting the stale scent of scotch wafting from the room. I punch in the six-digit code and the door hisses open, revealing a dimly lit room with scotch bottles, glasses, and an alarming amount of shards of glass littering the floor.

And a figure slumped over the workbench. Tony didn't seem to notice me; he was staring off into space, but I don't think he was _looking_ at anything.

"Hello?"

"Come t' apologize?" he asks quietly, his voice a mixture of slur and venom.

"What the hell are you doing?" I demand hotly. "Do you know what the hell you've done?"

I watch him stiffen and spin to face me, almost toppling off the bench along the way. "N'tasha?"

I raise an eyebrow. "I'm not your daughter, but I would like to know why she felt in necessary to call me in."

"It's not – she didn't need to – fam'ly stuff," he declares.

"That's utter bull," I scoff. "I don't believe you."

Tony stares at me for a moment, hazel eyes glazed over, before he bursts into giggles. _Giggles._ "You said _utter_ … _bull_ …" he manages before bursting into almost hysteric laughter.

I roll my eyes and hiss out a breath. _How had Taylor dealt with this for years and years before Tony got into gear?_ I shake my head and step over to the bottles until I'm by Tony's side.

I reach around to pinch a nerve on the left side of his neck, and the giggles cut off abruptly with a small gasp. "Ah – ow."

I don't reply, instead pulling him up into a position that vaguely resembled upright. "Now, what is going on?"

He doesn't reply as I sweep the bottles and glasses off another bench and pull it closer, taking a seat across from the elder Stark. "Don't make me ask again," I warn. "Why did Taylor find in necessary to call me in and _why_ does she have an inch-long gash on the crown of her head?"

"I – gash?" he honestly looked confused at this. "Wha' gash?" His eyes widen almost comically. "Did the glass _hit_ her?"

"You _threw_ a _glass_ at her?" I return. "You threw a glass at her. Bozhe moy, Tony."

"I dunno wh't you jus' said," he shrugs. "But I didn't mean for it to hit her…"

"Then why did you throw it?" I ask exasperatedly. "What were you even arguing about?"

"She doesn't care 'bout her own mother!" he rants. "Doesn' even give a-"

"Her mother tried to kill her," I remind him, speaking as if he were a small child. "And she abandoned Taylor before she was a week old."

"But I loved her!"

"Are you so _selfish_ to believe that everyone sees the woman you loved?" I challenge, narrowing my eyes at him. "Because Taylor sure as hell doesn't. And besides that, Tony, it's been twenty years."

"I don't _care_ ," he whines – _whines_ – and shoves out his lower lip.

"Man up, Stark," I growl lowly, leaning forward on the bench. "Man up and face the fact that, guess what, people _change._ Rebecca – Steel – tried to take over the world a year ago. She tried to kill everyone, including Taylor. And what did you expect after that? Everyone would just come back and play happy family?" I ask sarcastically.

He sighs and closes his eyes. "She was the one vaguely normal thing in my life. I want – I want to hold on to that."

"I'm not saying you can't. But that's not what you're doing here-"

"Is too."

" _It is not._ " I snap. "What you're doing here is obsessing over a woman long since gone, and in the process you've managed to hurt your daughter. You hurt your _child_ , Tony."

I watch him pale – well, pale further, anyways – at the last sentence. Because while I wasn't a parent myself, I knew that was one of the cardinal rules of parenthood: _Thou shalt do everything to_ not _harm your child._

Tony had smashed that rule to bits. And he knew it.

"Is it-" he falters. "'M I really tha' bad?"

"What do you think?" I ask. "Do you think she _likes_ finding you drunk out of your mind and having to drag you out of it because she's the only one that can? The rest of us stand no chance."

He doesn't reply, just gaining a mulish look.

"And she's right. You know that," I continue softly. "You do need to get back on your feet."

He sighs and nods, suddenly looking more weary than drunk. "I don't want to."

"Why not?"

"…I'm scared," he admits, so soft I'm not sure I heard him. "I don't want this to fail again. Part of me thinks I'm protecting her, you know. If Taylor gets attached again, and then…"

"If it all goes to hell…" I tilt my head. "What do _you_ think she'd do?"

"Be crushed."

"Hunt that _chienne_ down until she gets to avenge you," I correct, drawing a smile out of the engineer at the offensive French. "Your daughter is oddly protective of you, Tony, which is _why_ she wants you to stop moping."

"But what if she does get crushed?" he asks desperately.

"Then you'll be there," I reassure him. "You, me, Ja – Bucky, I mean, Rhodey, Bruce, Darcy…she's got people in her corner. Friends. Not to mention an ultra-supportive boyfriend."

I feel a slightly evil grin come over my face. "Who I'm going to call in, by the way. He's the only one that can get onto Floor 67 to get Taylor. You know how he gets when she's hurt," I comment, watching Tony go white and shrink slightly.

"Can I jus' apoligize b'fore tha'?" he mumbles.

I shake my head. "I'm keeping you two apart until morning. You're still drunk and she's still pissed."

He looks reluctant but nod. "I guess."

I nod again and practically drag him over to the couch in the corner. "Get some sleep. In the morning, you _will_ sober up, clean up this lab, and apologize. Understand?"

"Yes, _mother_ ," he drawls, but settles onto the couch anyways. I nod once more before getting up and making my way to the door.

A sleepy, slurred voice stops me. "N'tasha?"

"Hm?"

"Thanks."

I know he's not just thanking me for helping him to the couch. "You're welcome, Tony."

I make my way out of the lab, the lights dimming. I stop in the hallway and pull out my phone, sending a quick message.

 _Situation diffused. How is she?_

A reply buzzes in not half a minute later. _Asleep on my legs. They're going to be okay._

 _Good,_ I reply. _That's good._


	28. Age and Innocence

**Warning: deals with underage drinking and implied child abuse. Don't like, don't read.**

* * *

I can't drink.

That should really come as a given, seeing as how I was only 20 and still five months from the legal drinking age. So until next May I'd have to suffer in sobriety.

But I'll be damned if Dad's alcohol didn't look tempting sometimes – I was half tempted to play the 'rebellious teenager' card and invade his stash.

Especially on a night like tonight.

Tonight being December 12th, 2020 – one year, to the day, since the Last Straw Battle of 2019 that soon spiraled into what will probably be forever called the Civil War, or at least something to that effect.

(Truthfully, it should be called the _Second_ Civil War, but it's not like anyone alive remembers the first one. Not even Steve and Bucky.)

And speaking of Bucky, this marks the almost-anniversary of when I met him – well, _really_ met him, anyhow. He rescued me from enemy territory – enemies who were my friends, then not my friends, and now were my friends again.

That didn't mean it had been a smooth road – I'd be the first to admit where there had been bad days where everyone was jumpy around everyone else and sly glances were traded behind various backs. There would be days where the scars on my left hand would itch like crazy, driving me into the lab until they stopped and I could look Natasha in the eye again.

And don't even get me _started_ on the nightmares.

It wasn't fun to be woken up by Natasha screaming my name and "I'M SORRY! NO!" loud enough to wake the entire Tower, nor was it fun to be the one doing the screaming, haunted by Clint's dead eyes and his blood seeping through-

Nope. Not going there tonight. Not right now.

I shake my head and roll over onto my side staring out at the dark city and managing to catch my reflection in the glass, and my reflection made my breath catch.

I'll be the first to say I look like crap.

There were bags under my eyes and my hair was sticking up in every direction, but that's not the shocker.

Shocker was that I looked _old._

And I wasn't old – I was only twenty, the youngest member of the team, five years less than the next closest (Bucky) and twenty-nine less than the oldest (Bruce). Chronologically, of course, not factoring the super-soldiers 'on ice' feature.

But that was only physically. Mentally…I had no freaking _clue_.

I didn't know what a twenty-year-old mentality was like, really. I had no frame of reference there. Weren't kids my age sophomores in college? Maybe excited to drink or drinking, their biggest worry being their math test next week…

 _I wish._

I never had to worry about math tests, or much of anything academic for that matter – not only because I had it all in the bag (because hello, _genius_ ) but because _my_ biggest problems were things that kids my age should only dream of.

Or have nightmares of. Probably the nightmares.

At thirteen, normal kids only had to worry about whether or not their most recent acne spell would pass. At thirteen, my world got flipped completely on it's lid, and suddenly I was fighting the man that I knew hated me but never _hurt_ me. (Not _really_. He never _abused_ me. But it's never _really_ called that, is it?)

And then, without pause, everything got shook up again when I found out my dad was dying (months after the fact!) and might not live to see me turn fourteen. Natalie Rushman came onto the picture, as did Fury and Hammer and War Machine…

Yes, thirteen was _so_ much fun.

At fourteen, a kid's biggest fear should be their crush catching them staring in class. At fourteen, my biggest fear was watching my dad _die_ ( _"That's a one-way trip, Stark."_ ) from a place where I could do _nothing_ – because apparently I was old enough to take down a terrorist ring in the Middle East with one person, but not old enough to fight aliens with six other powerful people.

Go figure.

Fifteen? Oh, I only fought in my first _war_ then ended with me getting an arm stabbed off and an eternal nightlight in my chest, pressing into my lungs and making it impossible to breath sometimes. No big deal.

Thankfully there were no major, Earth-shattering crises for the next two years – those two years had probably been the best two years of my life. I learned how to drive, graduated college, made leaps and bounds in the scientific field (and some actual friends family?)…and then I became an adult and got kidnapped by a psychotic god hell-bent on ruling the world and everyone in it.

( _You also got a boyfriend,_ my inner voice reminds me. _Shut up,_ I tell it.)

Nineteen? Nineteen _sucked. Big_ _time_.

In May/June of that year, SHIELD came tumbling down around itself, revealing corruption and malice and a heavy dose of _**this**_ _is the_ real _world, little girl, get used to it or get the hell out._

(Not that I hadn't already gotten that message. Thanks, _Obie_.)

Oh, and I also met my mother – genius, horrible pregnant woman, breaker of Dad's heart, and crazy-evil-psycho-genius that just so happened to be the deputy of the new HYDRA.

Nice resume she's got there, don't you think?

And then, without a break, everything else started falling apart, like the world's biggest, meanest snowball – Dad quit, Bruce and I followed (Clint did nothing), Steve kicked us out, and we fled our own homes and subsequently fought a war with all new people, two of which I haven't really heard from since.

Six months ago, my father got drunk enough to throw a (heavy) glass at my _head_ – thank god that didn't scar, not physically – and then formed a blooming friendship (I think?) with Natasha "Black Widow" Romanoff, of all people.

October had been a good month; I have to admit. Dad turned forty-five (and still won't admit he might be getting old), Clint turned twenty-five, they both got hammered in (and banned from) Vegas. As Bucky later pointed out, it takes a hell of a lot to get banned from the City of Sin.

And now here I was. Sprawled on the communal floor couch because I couldn't sleep for fear of crippling nightmares, being deeply introspective with my inner-self, which was a sarcastic little terror.

Alone and contemplating illegal drinking.

"Couldn't sleep?"

Well, I _thought_ I was alone.

I pick my head up, everything quickly tensing before I see Bucky standing in the door. "I'm not familiar with this 'sleep' of which you speak."

"Most people aren't, tonight," he concedes, moving to sit at the bar. "Care for company?"

I get up and take a seat across from him, wincing at a sudden pain in my right shoulder. "The back-talk from my conscience _was_ getting a bit old."

The super-soldier nods absently as he gives my arm a concerned look. "Is that hurting?"

"A bit," I admit after a moment. "It's just sore. It does that sometimes, it's okay."

He frowns. "You can take it off, you know. I won't mind."

I frown hesitantly. "You sure?"

He makes an obvious gesture to his own metal arm. "Nope, not minding at all."

I give a half shrug and reach up to literally twist my arm out of it's socket, the prosthetic coming free with a hiss and a few clicks. I give a long sigh of relief as I set my arm on the table.

"Feeling better?" Bucky smirks.

I glare at him as I roll my shoulder, then realizing that my ugly, red, crisscrossed mass of scar tissue was showing. I try to tug my sleeve down, but I'm stopped by a stern look from Bucky.

"Really, I don't care," he stresses. "Leave it." He gives the prosthetic a curious glance. "That looks like it's seen better days."

I give a half-shrug as I ghost a hand over the scratches and dings on the silver metal. "I'll get Dad to look at it in the morning."

"Don't you mean later today?" Bucky corrects, reaching under the bar to pull out a chilled beer. "Want a soda?"

I shake my head and rest my chin on the counter top, my eyes fixed on the beer and my thoughts returning to the fact that I can't drink – I can't have anything to numb the vitriolic, acerbic anxiety that was currently racking my body.

Bucky, of course, follows my gaze and looks thoughtful for a moment before snapping his fingers in an almost cartoon-like lightbulb moment. He goes to grab a glass from the cupboard, setting it down with a _click_ and proceeding to pour about half his beer into it. "Here."

"I really shouldn't," I sigh as I watch him with a vague interest, well aware that I really should be protesting this more.

"Why not?" Bucky questions, sliding the glass over in a clear offering. "Come on."

I reach out a hand and pull the glass to me, staring down at my own reflection in the light amber liquid. "I'm not old enough."

"You were old enough to go risk your life last week," Bucky reminds me. "I think you're old enough to kick back and relax once in a while. And you need it, or I miss my guess."

I give a one-armed shrug and swirl the liquid around in the glass. "You're a horrible authority figure, you know that?"

"I don't remember signing up for that," Bucky teases lightly. "Come on, kid. Half a beer can't hurt you."

I roll my eyes at him. "They taught me about peer pressure, you know." But I lift the glass to my lips anyways, hesitating only slightly before tipping back the first sip.

Beer tastes…well, it didn't taste like I thought it would. I had thought it would be sweeter, maybe like a soda, but instead it's bitter (really, _really_ bitter) and yeasty, a bit like stale sourdough bread. It's also slightly citrusy, but I didn't know if that was a brand thing or a preference – Bucky seemed like they type to like a tangy beer.

It burns on the way down.

But was that a bad thing?

Also, _thanks for the alcoholic genes, Dad._

"Well?" I look up to see Bucky looking at me intently, his eyes excited. "How was it?"

I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth. "Bitter."

"You get used to it," he shrugs, taking a swig of his own beer.

"I'll wait until the end of May to get used to it," I decide, shaking my head. "As it is, Dad will kill me."

"I won't tell if you won't," he cajoles. "And I was right – you need this."

"Yeah, yeah, pat yourself on the back," I grouse, slumping over to lean against the counter. "God, this sucks."

"What does?" Bucky asks softly.

"I – just – tonight," I manage to stutter, taking another sip. "How long do you think it'll take to stop hurting?"

"Honestly?"

"Please."

"I don't think it ever does," he sighs heavily. "Do you know I still have nightmares – flashbacks of Hydra? It's been two years since I got out, myshka, and it hasn't gone away."

"That's to be expected, though," I argue.

"Why?"

"Because it was a traumatic experience that you won't be able to-" I blink, then glare at him. "Bucky, I wasn't under the influence of mind control for seventy years."

"I know," he nods. "But you've gone through your fair share of crap."

"You don't know the half of it," I grumble. "I met you when I was eighteen, Barnes, and by then I'd been doing this superhero gig for five years. Come to think of it, I've been at this longer than you have. So don't even start."

"I wasn't going to."

"I'm sorry," I mutter, running a hand through my hair, just making it stuck up more. "I've just realized the grand scope of all the stuff I've gone through."

"I have days like that," he admits. "I died, okay, just to put that in perspective. I _died_."

For some reason this makes me laugh a little. _It might be the alcohol,_ my mind supplies as I take another sip. "Well, at least I didn't die. I don't think so, anyways. I mean, the injury when I got this…" I self-consciously rub the mass of scar tissue and nerve endings that was my right shoulder plus two inches. "It was bad."

"You never did go into specifics on that," he muses.

"I told you, sliced through with rebar," I remind him. "There was an explosion, I didn't move fast enough, woke up without an arm, my chest started hurting, and the next time I woke up I had this." I rap my fingers against the reactor, which was giving the dim room an eerie look. "I was fifteen. That wasn't normal."

"You aren't," Bucky shrugs.

I hum at that, taking another sip. "Sometimes I think you had it easier."

"Um…" he stares at me incredulously. "Did you miss the part where I _died_?"

"Yeah, but…" I sigh and bite my lip. "How old were you when you entered the army, Buck?"

He looks a bit confused but decides to humor me. "Sixteen."

"Mmhm," I hum tonelessly. "I was four when I built my first bomb. My dad called it 'The Junior'. Not that it was small, by any means." I give a humorless laugh. "It packed 6 kilotons of force, caused casualties of more than 117,000 people, and had a blast radius of over 400 feet. Practically a baby, when you think about it."

Bucky, thankfully, doesn't say anything, but I do know he's there.

"I got shot at for the first time in August when I was thirteen," I continue softly. "By – get this – the United States Air Force. I mean, it wasn't _their_ fault, really, because we weren't supposed to be in Gulmira but we were, and-"

"Sestrenka."

I give Bucky a grateful look before continuing. "And then came the whole mess with Stane. Did you know that both my godfathers have betrayed me at some point? I swear – I swear to god that if I ever have a kid, their godfather is going to be the best guy ever and never betray them. Never," I repeat desperately. "He won't hurt them."

"Not like someone did to you?" Bucky asks softly, making me snap my head in so quickly my neck muscles protested. "Who hurt you?"

I don't answer as Bucky continues. "It wasn't Tony or Rhodes, since Tony's still friends with the man and he would rather die than stand for that. That really only leaves one option: Obadiah Stane."

I purse my lips at the name, dropping my eyes to the table as my breath hitches. "It wasn't – he didn't – it wasn't _abuse_. Not – he didn't hit me. Not really. Well, I – I mean, he slapped me once or twice, but that was my fault, kind of, and…it wasn't abuse," I repeat desperately. "It wasn't."

Since I'm not looking at Bucky at the moment, all I hear is a bout of vile Russian curing and footsteps before he sits down next to me, putting an arm around my shoulders. "I believe you."

I take in a shaky breath and he pulls me into a full hug, running a hand through my tangled hair. "Shh, it's okay. He's dead, right?"

I nod against his chest, managing to choke out, "Dad killed him."

"Good. Did Tony know about…what he was doing?"

I shake my head. "He found out when we found out Stane was dealing under the table," I explain. "Bucky, I swear it wasn't that bad – all he did was smack me or shake me or put his hand on my shoulder a little too hard. Mainly he'd yell. And at least I had my dad – I'm pretty sure Clint had it worse."

"That doesn't make it okay," Bucky announces with a mountain of conviction. "It's never okay to hit a child."

"Not even an obnoxious brat?"

"Not even then," he answers. "And you couldn't have been that bad."

"You have no idea," I laugh softly.

"Well you aren't that bad now," he reasons. "But I met you when you were already an adult."

"Barely," I snort. "You met me six months after I turned eighteen."

"Exactly," he nods. "Now, hey, enough with this deep stuff. Wanna watch a movie? We've got six hours until everyone else is up."

"Sure," I pull out of the hug and swallow the last of my drink before getting up and heading back to the couch. "What do you want to watch? What's next on your list?"

"We were on the early sixties," he supplies.

"How about _The Parent Trap_?" I suggest. "It's funny."

"Sounds good," he nods. "I'll go get the popcorn."

"Don't blow up the microwave again," I warn.

Ten minutes later we're settled on the couch with a slightly lumpy blanket Bucky himself had knitted, my head on his shoulder and a bowl of popcorn between us.

"Hey kid?" Bucky murmurs.

"Yeah?" I reply absently.

"If anyone ever – and I mean ever – tries to hurt you again, tell them you personally know the Winter Soldier. They won't be a problem anymore."

"Thanks, Buck," I laugh softly. "Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks – for this."

"No problem." He squeezes my shoulder. "After all, what are brothers for?"

I just smile and close my eyes, basking in his radiant body heat.

Sleep comes easily then.

* * *

 **There, just a bit of Bucky/Taylor bonding. I love their relationship – it's so uncomplicated.**

 **Sorry if this was a bit dark – I needed to do something for the anniversary of my Civil War.**

 **Thanks to RussianAssassin – who is currently without Wi-Fi and won't even see this for a week – for the inspiration behind some of Bucky's lines.**


	29. Cupid's Revenge

**Hey, guys! So, here's another extremely long one-shot that took me a little over two weeks to write, mainly for lack of motivation.**

 **Warning: this contains Stucky, as will future stories. Don't like, don't read, and please don't write angry reviews.**

* * *

Valentine's Day: I've always regarded it as a general paragon of all things sweet, mushy, and generally an opportunity for couples to be couples without (much) judgement.

Personally, I've always put it as either Before Boyfriend or After Boyfriend. Before Boyfriend meant I didn't give a flying fish about February 14th; it was just another day of the year, just with extremely expensive chocolates and an abundance of oversized, usually pink, balloons.

After Boyfriend, I still don't care all too much, and I still wouldn't be caught dead wearing pink, but Clint used it as an opportunity to take me out on dates that we didn't really get the change to go on anymore.

Not that I was complaining, of course. A girl likes to be treated.

Which led to lunch at our usual café followed by window shopping on 5th Avenue; just a few hours where we could be just two normal people without all the press and fame for once.

"What are you thinking about?" Clint's voice startles me out of my thoughts.

I shrug, scanning the surrounding area for paparazzi. "I don't get to do this very often."

"What, think? I should think otherwise," he teases.

"No," I roll my eyes dramatically, bumping his shoulder with mine. "I meant a normal date like this. With no interruptions or cameras…which is weird."

"Well I like spoiling you." He squeezes my hand. "And I may or may not have struck a deal with several newspapers and magazines to give us a wide berth today."

"What did you do?" I ask him suspiciously. "Not that I don't appreciate the gesture, but you didn't need to make a deal with the devil."

"I didn't!" he denies, then pauses. "Although I don't know where they are, so some poor shmuck is probably being hounded at the moment."

I consider this for a moment. "I hope it's Hammer," I declare. "I know he doesn't have a date, either."

"Oh, poor him," my boyfriend drawls. "Actually, no-"

He's cut off by both of our phones blaring Klaxon alarms and vibrating wildly. One quick look confirms the Assemble Alerts, and one glance is shared before we're making very fast progress back to where my car.

"We can't have a normal date, can we?" I grumble as we weave through the crowds on the sidewalk. "Not even one."

Clint just glances back at me before picking up his pace, and I relinquish that conversation because he's clearly in mission mode already.

We make it to my Aston-Martin in record time, and the passenger door is barely closed before we're speeding for the Tower.

" _Ma'am, Mr. Barton, you have an incoming call from Miss Romanoff,"_ Jarvis announces.

"Route her through," I order, tightening my grip on the door. "Clint, don't break my car. Do you want to owe me 2.3 million dollars?"

He eases off the gas a little, but the intense look in his eyes remains as the windshield lights up, Natasha's contact photo appears in the upper right hand corner with a small Black Widow hourglass and an audio signal.

"You're on the line," Clint prompts absently.

" _Is Taylor still with you?"_ the ex-Russian asks brusquely.

"Right here," I pipe up. "What is it? We got the call."

" _About that – don't come back to the Tower."_

"What?" I press back against my seat as Clint floors it again. "What's wrong?"

" _Nothing, nothing,"_ she backpedals. _"Nothing here, anyways. We got a report of a group of rogue mutants – that was the call – but it's in Fort Hood, Texas. Taylor, if you deploy Beta V now, you could make it in just under an hour."_

"And I can carry Clint," I agree. "What about everyone else?"

" _Steve and Bucky were together when the call went out, and they're flying the Quinjet in together. Thor's flying himself in, Tony's in the suit, and I'm… currently being carried."_

It takes a second before her last sentence sinks in. "Is my dad _carrying_ you? Is it bridal style?"

" _Taylor, just get here,"_ she growls.

"It is," I laugh, and Clint gives me a reproving look. "Right, sorry, back to the mission. Although I'm not letting this go. Where in Fort Hood?"

" _I'll get Tony to send you the coordinates."_

"Got it," I nod. "Beta out." I end the call and look at Clint. "Pull over here – no, here."

Clint gives me an incredulous look but follows my instruction anyways, pulling into a dark alley between two old brick buildings. I hop out before the car pulls to a full stop, shedding my jacket, tossing into the back seat and accepting my bow, quiver, and gear from Clint.

I step a few feet down the alley, fishing a small earpiece out of my pocket and slipping it in and activating it. "Jarvis, deploy. Send it in."

I should probably explain – I designed Beta V to be lighter, faster, more flexible, and completely autonomous, and instead of relying on assembly bots, I decided to take a page out of the Mark XLII's book and put it together puzzle-style with help from the trackers in my metal prosthetic.

And it should be arriving in _ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two…_

A slight hum fills the air as metal peaks over the building to my left, slamming into my hand and quickly expanding to form one of my gauntlets, the action then copied by the other gauntlet so that I'm incased up to my elbows. Then come shoulder pads and the upper arms, followed by the legs (and don't ever say that metal hitting your shins at high speeds doesn't hurt) and abdomen pieces – which are smaller plates that link together like chain mail – and the back plates. Thankfully the chest and helmet plates come in slightly slower, followed by a few smaller side pieces.

And then I'm left staring at the last piece – the faceplate. Which is kind of creepy, actually.

I take a deep breath before giving a short blast of the thrusters, launching up a few feet to meet the faceplate in mid-air, summersaulting forward to land on one knee with a fist planted firmly on the asphalt.

"Well," I muse as the holoscreen lights up, "that went better than the tests." I straighten up and look at Clint, who was fully armed and waiting by the car.

"You done, show off?" he teases, brushing a piece of lint off his leather vest.

"Yeah, yeah," I roll my eyes, taking off and smoothly scooping up my boyfriend in a bridal carry and lifting us both to about 10,000 feet.

Clint sighs and shifts carefully in my arms. "Well…at least this is romantic."

"Don't make me drop you."

* * *

One hour later, Clint and I have arrived in Fort Hood, Texas – which is a military base – and for once, it's not freezing, just a brisk sixty degrees.

I swoop down to drop Clint on the concrete below before landing myself and looking at the Captain. "What are we looking at here?"

" _Rogue mutants,"_ he replies, and that certainly gets everyone's attention. _"A four-person team that goes by the name of The Fearsome Four. two guys, two girls – codenamed Hurricane, Feline, Arborion, and Brimstone. They seem hell-bent on destroying the base."_

"Question," I interject. "Why can't the X-Men do anything about this? It seems right up their alley."

"Or the Army, for that matter," Bucky adds, both from Steve's right and over the comms. _"This is their home turf – where are_ _ **they**_ _?"_

" _The X-Men are busy with another group called The Wrecking Crew on the West Coast. The soldiers are holed up in the mess hall. I've just spoken the base commander – they can't move and we're the first sign of help."_

"Well…they're welcome." I rock back on my heels. "This feels good – the whole knight-in-shining-armor stuff."

" _Sorry to burst your bubbles,"_ Dad calls. _"But remember the angry mutants? We need to get moving."_

" _Right."_ I watch as Cap takes on his 'leader' persona, tightening his grip on his shield. _"Okay…Hawkeye, there's a guard tower to our north – that should work as a perch. Hold position there, give us a big picture of the field. Iron Man, drop him off and then find out where the Four are localizing they're efforts."_

" _On it, Cap,"_ Dad confirms and Clint nods before they're gone with a rush of air.

" _Thor, Iron Beta, you're air support – if any of these guys can fly, give it all you've got,"_ Cap continues. _"Widow, Winter Soldier, get ready to mobilize on Iron Man's signal."_

I don't get a chance to ask _what signal,_ because suddenly there's a huge explosion that lights up the afternoon sky and rocks the ground, even where we all are.

"That signal?" I ask only half-rhetorically as I take off to avoid the trembling ground, waiting for Cap's nod before taking off towards the source of the explosion, Thor just behind me.

I get my first glimpse of the mutants from hundreds of feet in the air – and even from there, I don't like what I see.

There are four of them, just like Steve had said – one man with white, unruly hair and eyes that almost looked white (but were blue upon closer inspection) and dressed in white robes with blue detailing; one woman with large black wings, red eyes, and fangs, dressed in dark shades of red and black; another man, this one looking like a smaller version of the Thing; and another woman, crouched in the shadows with a cat-like grace.

Thor, of course, immediately heads for the strongest one while I head for the only one that can obviously fly, opening fire on the winged lady. "Hey, chicken lady! Over here!"

Her head snaps over to look at me with unnatural speed, her eyes glowing red like embers. Locking her gaze on me, Bird Lady spreads her wings, showing about a fifteen-foot wingspan – and I take a moment to admire that, because it really is a pretty sight, and they match my color scheme – before rising into the air to match me in altitude.

"Ah, little Miss Stark," she greets with a sardonic grin. "How wonderful to see you."

"When will people stop calling me little?" I complain. "I mean, I'm almost twenty-one, I've graduated college, really-"

My rant is cut off by several sharp things flying at me dead on, which I manage to duck just in time. "Rude. You cut me off."

"Well, if you want to play with the big boys, my dear…" Bird Lady mocks, flicking her wings and causing several more sharp things to fly at m, which I now see are feathers – somehow. "So which one are you?" I ask casually while arming the stinger missiles that were kept on my thigh. "Or do you just want me to call you Feather Cannon?"

She lets out a harsh cackle that makes me want to book her in an asylum. "You can figure it out dearie, if you're so smart."

And then she almost seems to glow around the edges before there's a blinding flash and suddenly the winged lady isn't there anymore, leaving behind only a strong smell of sulfur.

Wait, sulfur?

" _Iron Beta, report!"_ Cap barks in my ear, jerking me back to reality. _"What was that?"_

"Not quite sure, Cap," I admit slowly. "She was shooting feathers at me, she was glowing and then gone. And now I'm going to have to let this air out because everything within twenty feet smells like rotten eggs. And…" I do a quick 360 analyzation of the base around me. "I've lost her."

" _And idea which one she is?"_

"No," I sigh absently, my eyes flicking from building to building.

" _Brimstone,"_ Natasha cuts in curtly from the ground, where she and Feline – apparently a lithe woman that took a page out of Cat-Woman's book – were locked in a hand-to-hand-slash-parkour battle. _"I've got Feline, Steve and Bucky have Aborion-"_ I glance down to where the shield was bouncing between Steve, Bucky, and the Mini-Thing _"-and Thor's taking on Hurricane, so you get Brimstone."_

" _The sulfur makes more sense, then,"_ Clint interjects. _"Fire and brimstone, God's wrath and all that."_ There's a muffled explosion on his end of the line, and some muffled coughing sounds before he comes back on. _"Found her. She's just west of my position – I'll keep her busy for a second."_

"Copy that, Hawkeye," I reply before taking off towards his position. I arrive to find that Brimstone's wrapped herself in her wings, like a giant, black, feathery cocoon, and none of Clint's arrows seem to be hurting her.

" _The wings are invincible,"_ my boyfriend reports. _"You can't touch her when she's curled up like that."_

I nod and, after doing some quick calculations in my head, charge straight for the mutant. I manage to slam into her back, the one place where her wings weren't, and send her flying into the side of a building.

She picks herself up and glares at me, her eyes flashing. "You, little one, are getting on my nerves."

"Good," I quip. "That's what I do best." I blast her with the repulsors dialed to full power, but she just takes flight again and gives me an infuriating smirk. I switch to internal comms. _"Hawkeye, any weaknesses?"_

" _She doesn't have any weapons,"_ he reports after a moment. _"Not that I've seen, anyways. All she has is her wings – take those away, and she's a sitting duck."_

"Noted." I nod before charging forward again.

Five minutes and three failed shots later, I've gotten absolutely nowhere with Ms. Feather Cannon and I'm severely pissed off because of it.

"Is there anyone that can help me with Brimstone?" I ask the general battlefield, not speaking to anyone in particular. I get seven negatives – Widow and Hawkeye are busy with Feline, Bucky and Steve are duking it out with Aborion, and Thor's just managed to corner Hurricane – who could float on clouds, by the way – on the southern end of the base.

"Cap," I say again, this time directly, "I need permission to call in help."

" _Permission granted, Beta,"_ Cap replies over the sound of gunfire and someone – more than likely Bucky – screaming curses in Russian.

I duck behind the nearest building, hovering steadily as I address Jarvis. _"J, keep an eye on her signature, tell me if she moves or pulls another disappearing act. And put Reserve…Two on the line please. I don't care if he's busy."_

" _Yes, Miss Stark,"_ the AI responds dutifully, putting the call through as requested.

" _Wilson."_ a slightly distracted voice answers.

"Falcon," I greet flatly, skipping all pleasantries.

" _Tay – Iron Beta."_ Sam definitely sounds more alert now, and I smirk slightly. _"What's up?"_

"Where are you, and how fast can you be at Fort Hood Military Base, Texas?" I demand. "I'm calling you in."

" _Well today's your lucky day, then,"_ he quips. _"I was in Amarillo – for vacation, mind you."_

"Don't even start," I snap. "I was on a date when we got called out. ETA, Falcon?"

" _Sorry. I should be there in about an hour and a half at top speeds,"_ he reports, sounding apologetic. _"It's the best I can do."_

"I get it," I sigh. "Check in with Cap when you here."

" _Yes ma'am!"_ he replies smartly, even though I don't think I outrank him – not in _this_ team, anyways. The Air Force was a whole other basket of eggs.

I roll my eyes as I disconnect the call, refocusing on the scans Jarvis had pulled up. She hasn't moved, and that was odd, but I push her to the back burner for a moment as I make my way over to Steve, closer to the center of the base.

"Cap," I call, perching precariously on a ledge about ten feet above the ground. "Wilson's on his way."

" _Roger that, Iron Beta,"_ he acknowledges. _"Get back in position."_

I sigh, nod, and fly back the way I came, praying to Thor that Brimstone has mysteriously died in the last ten minutes.

* * *

One hour, twenty-nine minutes, and ten seconds (but who's counting?) later, I'm seriously regretting all of my life choices and debating a career in accounting.

I could do math, and it was safe. Certainly safer than flying around in a 200-pound modern suit of armor against a demonic-angel-mutant-lady that I had no idea how to beat.

"Falcon," I try for the twentieth time in the last hour, "where the hell are you?"

" _On your left!"_

I blink. That was new. _Was he-?_

"Don't tell me you were giving up," a voice calls, and I turn to see Sam Wilson walking across the rooftop to where I was standing as his silver and red wings retract into their backpack.

"Of course not," I reply flippantly as I flip the faceplate up. "That'd just save all the fun for you."

He gives a soft chuckle before stepping up next to me and squaring his shoulders. "Sit-rep?"

I roll my eyes at him – military types, they never change – but report anyways. "Brimstone's a mutant – big, black, invulnerable wings that can shoot feathers at you, glow-y red eyes, and she occasionally disappears in a flash of bright light. She keeps you on your toes."

"Weapons?"

"None that I can see."

"This should be a piece of cake then." Sam looks at me incredulously. "What are you waiting for?"

"Backup." I flip down my faceplate again. "Come on." He follows me off the roof and a block west, following the scent of slightly burnt rotten eggs to the winged mutant.

" _I'm going to burn these clothes when I get home,"_ Sam announces decisively from behind me. _"Talk about B.O."_

I roll my eyes, unseen by him, and dive into the courtyard with my thrusters and repulsors both at full power. "Brimstone!"

She flashes in next to me and immediately sends another volley of feathers my way before noticing Sam. "Oh, how nice! You've brought friends! Was I not invited to the party?"

"Your invitation must've gotten lost in the mail," I growl, blasting at her feet. She flies up and out of the way of my blast, only to get her lower half at by Falcon, who had been hovering above and behind me.

Yeah, see? Teamwork.

He dives out of the way as I take his place, both of us aiming for the lower half of her body; not only was that out of the way of her wings, but we were under orders to not kill them (if at all possible), no matter how much I wanted to.

One of my shots actually grazes her knee, leaving a nasty-looking brown burn that I knew from experience hurt like hell.

(Lab Safety 101: What _Not_ to Do.)

She wasn't expecting me to actually land a hit, so she loses balance and almost falls from the sky – therein allowing Sam to land a shot on her foot.

Slowly but steadily, we manage to force her back against a wall, pinning her down at last.

Well, pride does come before a fall.

She starts to glow again, and I just manage to shout out a warning before there's another bright flash and this time, I'm sent tumbling and hit the ground _hard._

" _Beta, report!"_ Clint shouts, and by the sounds of things he's asked the same question many times before my comms rebooted.

"I'm fine, Hawkeye," I groan, both for Clint's benefit and everyone else's because I _know_ they're listening. " _Brimstone might have to die now,"_ I add in Russian, for those that can understand. Switching back to English, I look around for my companion. "Falcon?"

"' _M okay,"_ he groans, and I see a shadow just around the corner to my right. _"Damn, Miss Feathers will not stay still."_

"No dip, Sherlock," I drawl, rolling myself out of turtle position and checking all suit systems before standing up and firing up the thrusters. "This ends _now_."

"Agreed," Sam says, shaking out his wings before taking a running start and circling around to make pace with me. "Lead the way."

I quickly take the lead, following Jarvis' instructions to a gigantic on-base airport, littered with idle cargo planes and one insane mutant.

I motion for Sam to stay back as I arc upwards, moving so that I got an aerial view of the runway where Brimstone hadn't seen either of us yet. She didn't seem to see us, which was very unsettling.

"Falcon, keep an eye on her," I request, external speakers turned off. "Jarvis, cupcake, I need weak spots."

Jarvis quickly points out all her vulnerabilities – between her shoulder blades, her lower body, her head; anywhere were her wings couldn't cover.

My brain starts whirring with force calculations – a 200-pound object traveling at high speeds compared with the lethal force to humans…

"Sam," I clear my throat, "I have a plan."

" _Oh, no,"_ he groans. _"That's your I-Have-an-Incredibly-Dumb-Plan voice. Don't do it. Whatever you're planning, do not do it."_

I ignore him, quieting my thrusters to a whisper, take a deep breath, and leaving Sam with "Don't tell dad!" before kicking the metaphorical throttle, quickly reaching speeds upwards of 1,000 while on a forty-five-degree angle downward.

Brimstone literally doesn't see me coming as I grab her in a football tackle, slowing down at the last moment so I don't actually kill her, only shatter some bones because I'll take what I can get.

That part of the plan goes perfectly – the problem happens when I _can't stop_ – careening the ground, still going around 500 miles per hour.

That's fast enough to knock me out _with_ the helmet.

 _Maybe this plan wasn't the best one._

 _Sorry, Sam._

* * *

I feel like I've been hit by a train.

That's my first thought upon regaining consciousness. My second thought, true to my heritage, is _did anybody kiss me?_

"Guilty," a familiar voice admits, and I realize I said that last part out loud.

I moan softly as I peel my eyes open, blinking against the late-afternoon Texas sun. My faceplate isn't there, but I can feel it simply retracted and not ripped off as Thor was prone to do – and thank god, because I don't think Pikachu realizes how hard that is to fix.

I'm lying in a shallow crater in the asphalt, presumably right where I landed after epically taking down Miss Avian-American.

My eyes focus on Clint, who is crouching nearby and more than likely the one that kissed me.

"Brimstone?" I ask, my sore everything protesting even that smallest of movements.

"Currently restrained in the back of a van the X-Men loaned us. She's not going anywhere fast, not with two broken legs." He gives me a small, proud smile. "You got her."

I breathe a sigh of relief, glad that the nearly four-hour ordeal was finally over. "Everyone else okay?"

"They are," Clint confirms. "Thor got Hurricane, I shot Feline in the leg, and Barnes knocked out the tree guy. We're packing up the jet now."

"Okay." I nod, then raise a hand. "Help me up."

He gives me an incredulous look. "You weigh like, 300 pounds right now. I'm not helping you up."

I arch an eyebrow. "Are you calling me fat?"

My boyfriend opens his mouths as if to protest, gapes for a moment, and then closes it again. "Never mind."

Another set of footsteps crunches across the asphalt, and Bucky comes into view. "Come on, I got you."

I accept his hand and he pulls me up easily, thanks to both his metal arm and the serum running through his veins. I give Clint a gentle peck on the cheek to show that I had realize what he meant – the suit did weigh around 200 pounds – before making my way back to the jet, not trusting my suit to fly me home.

* * *

Apparently Clint's deal with the media didn't last the six hours that we were in Texas, because they flocked the plane as soon as we touched down at US Air Force Department base.

I told Dad we should've landed on the roof. I _told_ him.

But I just straighten the clothes I had on under the suit, slip on a pair of extra sunglasses and my best press smile, and grin and bear it, just like always.

Dad and I field the usual questions about SI, our public images, so on and so forth. But then the questions turn to the fact that it's Valentine's Day and they haven't seen heads nor tails of any of us all day.

Clint and I, as the only concrete and completely Avengers-inclusive couple, get the most questions about what we were doing all day, if Clint spoiled me (which is all based on perspective), and if I enjoyed it (I did).

But then the conversation turns to the possible couples in the team – i.e., Steve and Bucky, known to social media collectively as Stucky. (Clint and I were Claylor – I didn't appreciate sounding like pottery, but at least I didn't sound an adhesive.)

It was common knowledge among everyone on the team – sans Steve and Bucky themselves – that the two had had a "thing" for each other since at _least_ last April. It might've sprouted during the Civil War, or possibly before that, but given that back in the 40s being anything but straight as an arrow could get you jail time, they were probably denying whatever they felt for each other.

So I didn't expect either of them to do anything, not even when provoked by the sharks.

I underestimated the boldness that was James Buchanan Barnes.

"Do something cute!" one young female reporter demands.

Bucky pauses, mid-turn, and seems to deliberate something for a moment before I can almost see the lightbulb turn on over his head in a moment of decisive clarity. He turns on his heel and faces Steve for a moment before grabbing the slightly taller man and spinning him into the perfect ballroom dip.

(I take a moment, through my slightly shocked state, to wonder where he learned how to dance.)

Their faces are literally inches away, and for a moment I'm sure – as are all the reporters, whose cameras are going _wild_ – that they're going to kiss, right here on an Air Force base under the dark, late-winter sky.

But they don't. Not really. Bucky straightens up slowly, pulling Steve with him, and quickly pecks the other man on the cheek before walking away.

The reporters go _insane_ – cameras flashing like crazy, questions being shouted left and right.

I back out of the fray, making my way over to Clint, who had been watching the whole spectacle from a safe distance away.

"You know," he murmurs softly, so that only I can hear, "this wasn't a bad Valentine's Day, after all."

"No," I hum as I lay my head on his shoulder, watching Steve who was looking at Bucky as if he'd never seen him before. "It really wasn't."


	30. Home, Sweet Home

"I need some advice."

"Uh oh," Dad looks up from the hologram he was studying. "What misbegotten stunt are you pulling now?"

I bite my lip, keeping my gaze locked on his. "Seriously."

"Okay, seriously." He rolls his chair over so that he's across my workbench. "What's up?"

"How do you know...how do you when a relationship is serious enough to move in together?"

A knowing look flashes across my dad's face - like he's _well_ aware who this conversation's really about - but he just sighs and leans back in his chair. "All I can say is that you have to be entirely sure about this - this, and all future relationship decisions, really. Moving in together is the first big step - first it's moving in, then the proposal, then marriage, then kids, and-"

I let out a small squeak, and he stops to look at my face before swearing under his breath and running a hand through his hair, making it stick up in a million different directions. "Sorry, kiddo," he says sincerely. "Look at me, it's been over twenty years and I still haven't got the hang of this 'parenting' thing."

I roll my eyes at the old line before becoming serious again. "You were saying..."

"Right, where was I...moving in. You have to understand, Taylor, that sharing a space with someone can make or break your relationship with that person. Like, you love your boyfriend, yes, but do you love the way he leaves his socks all over the floor? Or the way he gets up at the butt-crack of dawn to run ten miles every day? Or can he stand the way you stay up 'til two in the morning working on designs for new armor?"

I nod. "So you're saying it's a way to find out if we can stand each other on a more permanent basis."

"Exactly," he nods, the pauses. "Birdbrain asked you, didn't he? To move in with him."

"Three months ago," I confirm. "...I think I'll say yes."

"Okay," he shrugs. "I can't really stop you at this point. Just know that if he hurts you-"

"You kill him, I know," I sigh, rolling my eyes.

"And you'll always have a place in this Tower - he'll be the one evicted, never you."

I consider this for a while before nodding. "Thanks, I'm gonna use your vents now."

I step into the center of the lab and unlatch the vent cover before he can protest, hoisting myself in and re-latching the cover behind me. "Thank you," I call over my shoulder, ignoring his indignant protests.

"You could've at least said goodbye!" Dad calls, his voice muffled and distorted.

I ignore him as I begin to make my way through the vent network, quickly making my way from floor 10, where Dad and I shared the main mechanical lab, up to floor 30, where Natasha's favorite gym was.

I kick out the vent cover and drop into a small storage room just off the main lab, the lights coming on as soon as Jarvis sensed my movement. I make my way into the main gym, watching as the Black Widow grappled with her ex-partner inside the big MMA ring - it was like watching a mongoose and a snake fight, and it was _awesome_.

After about ten minutes of this, Clint's ended up belly-down on the mats with Natasha straddling his back and her arms wrapped around his head and neck in a combination headlock-slash-chokehold.

"Please don't break my boyfriend," I call as I approach the ring.

"You take all the fun out of it," Natasha complains as she gets off of Clint, coming over to meet me by the ropes, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. "What are you doing? Just watching or do you want to have a go at it?"

"No thanks, I have things I need to do today," I quip. "But I need to borrow my boyfriend for a minute."

"Okay," she shrugs, waving Clint over. "Just do whatever you do _quietly_ , please."

I roll my eyes at her. "It's not that. I need to _talk_ to him - people do that, you know."

The redhead raises a dry eyebrow, but shrugs again and ambles off, leaving Clint and I alone.

"What's up?" my boyfriend asks, leaning against the ropes of the ring and looking slightly down at me.

"Do you have a minute?" He nods, and I take a step back, motioning for him to follow. I lead him back to the storage room, only detouring slightly to grab his water bottle and a cooling towel.

"Now, will you please tell me what's going on?" he asks as I close the door behind us.

"I've been looking for you all morning," I explain. "I need to talk to you."

"Well that's never good," he teases, sitting down on a spare water cooler. "What's up?"

"I need to tell you something," I begin. "I-"

I'm cut off by Clint's water bottle hitting the floor, and I look over to see his eyes blown wide and his face white as a sheet - I'm also really glad he was already sitting down, because that could've proved disastrous.

"Are you pregnant?!" he blurts out, and I can hear the thinly-veiled panic in his voice.

 _Hawkeye: master assassin, spy, ex-soldier...panics at the thought of me being pregnant,_ I muse. _Who would've thought?_

"No," I say slowly, drawing out the word. "No. That's not it."

"Oh," he sighs, relief evident in his voice. "Oh, okay. It just seemed likely, you know, since it's been three months since your birthday, and-"

"I know."

"And I'm not sure if we used protection-"

"I _know_."

"And I figured that-"

"Clint!" I cut him off by slapping a hand over his mouth. "I know how long it's been and no, we probably didn't use protection, but trust me, I'm not pregnant. I checked. No little people running around any time soon. Okay?" He nods, and I pull back my hand, wiping it on my jeans.

"So what did you want to tell me then?"

"Right." I take a deep breath. "Do you remember what you told me the day after my birthday?"

"I told you a lot of things the day after your birthday," he smirks. "Most of them in the early morning hours, and some variation of _oh, yeah_ -" He cuts himself off at my glare. "Truth be told, I did tell you a lot of things."

"Okay, do remember what you _asked_ me?" I try again.

Instead of coming up with a snappy comeback, Clint seems to consider this for a moment before looking at me. "I did ask you to move in with me. You said 'not yet' and that you'd think about it."

I give him a half-smile. "Well, I've thought about it. It took me three months, just about, but I've given it a lot of thought."

Clint sucks in a breath, and I watch a reluctant hope - like he doesn't want to get his hopes up - spark in his steel grey eyes. "And?"

"And...I'd love to move in with you."

"Really?!"

"Yes," I laugh. "Really."

He gives me a blinding grin before pulling me into a kiss that makes my toes curl.

"Thank you," he breaths as he pulls back. "I love you, _liebe_."

"Love you too, _amore_." I lean forward against his chest, tucking my head under his chin. "When can I start moving my stuff in?"

"As soon as you want," he mumbles into my hair. "Do you need help?"

"You can help if you want," I shrug. "But I don't honestly have a lot of things on Darcy's floor, and I'll be enlisting everyone else's help, so if you had plans today, don't cancel them on my behalf."

"Nope, no plans," he says. "Although, I did promise Natasha one more round..."

"Go on, then," I nudge him towards the door. "Go get the crap beaten out of you."

"Hey!" he protests. "I can beat Natasha."

"Really?" I raise an eyebrow. "You've known Natasha for, what, nine years now? How many times have you won a sparring match?"

"Once."

"Last year in Benghazi doesn't count, given that she was high as a kite and you were stone-cold sober." I hand him his water bottle and give him another nudge out the door. "Take it like a man, Hawkeye."

He steps out of the room with a very un-manly whine, and I roll my eyes before re-entering the vents and making my way to floor 50, the Avengers' communal area.

"Jarvis, assemble the Avengers," I command as I drop onto one of the couches. "Wait, no, don't actually assemble the Avengers, just...get them here."

 _"I understand, ma'am,"_ Jarvis replies, sounding amused. After a few minutes, the room is filled with slightly tense, twitchy, dangerous people.

Just a normal day in the Tower, really.

"Is something wrong?" Natasha demands. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Tasha," I reassure her, taking a quick look at the people gathered in the room. The only ones who are at ease are Clint and my dad; everyone else is confused, on edge, or a mix of both. "Everyone, stand down. Nothing's wrong."

The tension that had congealed in the room lessens a fair deal. "Okay," Bucky huffs. "Then why are we all here?"

"Why?" I smirk. "Did I tear you away from-" I aim a not-so-subtle glance at Steve. "-anything important?"

"брат," he snarls.

I give him a cheeky grin before turning back to the majority of the group. "But I do need some help."

"With?" Natasha prompts.

"Moving some stuff."

"Oooh, is it a body?" We all look at Darcy, who was bouncing in her seat. "I've always wanted to hide a body. This is so _exciting!_ "

I mentally facepalm as Natasha reaches over to pat her shoulder. "We know people _far_ more skilled in body disposal than you, you demented child."

"In all seriousness, is this some superheroes-only top secret stuff?" Jane asks. "Do we," she motions to herself, Darcy, and Betty, "need to leave?"

"If this was top secret, I wouldn't have had Jarvis call _everyone_ ," I point out. "I need help moving my stuff from one floor to another."

Darcy blinks. "What? You're moving out? But where would you - _oh._ "

"Darcy," I groan as realization dawns on her. "Please don't-"

She lets out an ear-piercing shriek that would've shattered the floor-to-ceiling windows, had they not been bulletproof, bombproof, shockproof...you get the idea.

"-squeal," I finish unnecessarily over the sound of Bucky and Steve, who had sensitive hearing, moaning and groaning.

Once we've all recovered from that little catastrophe, I call everyone's attention again. "So...yeah. I'm moving in with Clint. Who wants to help me move?"

Eventually I get a room full of confirmations, so I grab a nearby StarkPad and turn it on, pulling up a 3D map of the floor Darcy and I shared. "Okay, so here's how this is going to go..."

.

Fifteen minute later, everyone's scattered about floor 15, almost everyone in charge of packing or sorting a different item.

I, personally, was handling my clothes, with Natasha packing the various knick-knacks around my room.

"Is this a cuckoo clock?" Natasha asks incredulously, and I poke my head out of my closet to see her holding up a novelty Swiss cuckoo clock that was more than a decade old.

"Yeah," I sigh, folding a coat and putting it into the cardboard box marked 'Clothes - Keep'. "Dad had an associate that was Swedish when I was, like, five. Guy liked me, but I thought he was creepy as hell."

"How so?" she asks, shifting the clock from one hand to the next.

"How was he creepy?" She nods. "Well, he treated me like a favorite grandchild, but I wasn't his grandkid, obviously, but I couldn't quite tell him that without being the rudest five-year-old on the planet."

Natasha snorts, holding up the clock. "So this has no emotional attachment?"

"Not at all."

She tosses the clock into the trash can in the middle of the room, and we both hear it shatter into tiny pieces.

I fold another t-shirt and drop it in the box before closing the box and hefting it up onto my right hip. "Be right back."

I make my way into the elevator, pressing the button for floor 90 and setting the box down, watching the floor numbers increase as the elevator moved upwards.

The layout of the Tower itself was really simple if you thought about it: starting from the bottom, the lobby was on the first floor. Floors one through four were Stark Industries executive offices; the more important you were, the higher up your office was.

Five though fifteen were all labs; R&D, chemical, biological, mechanical, and every other type of lab one could think of.

Sixteen through twenty were all dubbed 'half-floors' and they were literally that: half the floor belonged to a semi-important person like Sam, Rhodey, and Darcy, and the other half was usually generic guest rooms. Betty and Jane also had rooms there, but they had long since moved in with their boyfriends.

Twenty-one through forty-nine were all dedicated to training superheroes: simulation rooms, strategy practice, debriefing rooms, gyms, and both archery and gun ranges.

Fifty was the Avengers' Communal Floor - where we all gathered for movie nights, team dinners, lazy mornings, and just generally hung out as a team.

Fifty-one all the way through ninety-nine were all live-in floors; our own living spaces with theaters, more gyms, and lounges dotted throughout. Thor and Jane were on 60, Bruce and Betty were on 63, the Couple's Retreat was on 67, Steve was on 87, Bucky right above him on 88. Clint - and my new residence - was on 90, nice and high up, with Natasha just above us on 91 and then my dad on 99, in his penthouse suite.

100, the very top floor, was where we all were either just before or just after missions. It featured the second-largest amount of armories (50 had the most), direct access to the jets and helipad on the roof, and a small bar and lounge for de-stressing after battles.

The elevator arrives on Clint's floor, jarring me out of my thoughts. I pick up the box of clothes again, making my way out of the elevator, through the open kitchen/living room, and down the hallway to the master bedroom.

"Hey, I-" I stop in the doorway, looking at the scene before me: Clint was surrounded by various rifles, guns, and bows, looking vaguely indecisive about something.

"What are you doing?"

"Hm?" He looks up at me. "Oh, hi. I'm trying to find out which of my weapons I can transfer to another armory instead of my personal one to make room for yours."

"You don't use your crossbow all that often," I suggest, pointing at the mentioned weapon. "I'd move that."

He considers this for a moment before nodding, grabbing an armful of weapons, and leaving the room.

I skirt around the almost-literal minefield, entering the master bathroom and watch Dummy, You, and Butterfingers dash around with various toiletries before entering the small walk-in closet and beginning to add this newest box of clothes to the ones I had already added to my side of the closet.

"Taylor!" Clint calls from the bedroom. "C'mere!"

I finish hanging up a dress and move back into the bedroom, wiping imaginary dust off my hands. "What's up?"

"Catch," he deadpans. I blink and start to ask my boyfriend what he's talking about, but I cut myself off as a dark object flies towards my head, catching it only inches away from my head.

I scowl as I recognize one of my own Sig Sauer P226 pistols. "Why did my gun just get thrown at my head?"

"Sorry." I look over at Darcy, who doesn't sound all too apologetic. "But we brought your weapons up," she motions towards the three cardboard boxes by her feet and Clint's, "and we need to have a chat about the seventeen guns and various weapons stashed around my apartment."

"Seventeen?" I frown in thought as I crouch in front of one of the boxes. "Could've sworn I had more."

I ignore my ex-roommate, who was now gaping at me in shock, in favor of unpacking one of the cardboard boxes that she and Clint had brought up.

I begin to sort through each and every gun, knife, bow, arrow, and bazooka ( _what was that even_ doing _in there?_ ), mentally identifying each one and noting which ones I should clean, which ones I should put in the public armory versus the private one Clint and I now shared, and which ones I should really just throw away because they were eight-year-old guns and practically rusted through.

About an hour later, my weapons are all sorted and secure in the small armory across the hall from the master bedroom, behind a special panel of wall that could only be opened with a code and security key.

I re-emerge into the living room, only to find my dad lying on his back, messing with something under the bookcase just to the left of the hallway that led off the living room and kitchen and to the master bedroom, bathroom, and forked left to lead to a small office/storage room.

"What are you doing?" I ask curiously, peering down at his AC/DC t-shirt.

Dad freezes for a moment, as if he got caught doing something he wasn't supposed to. "Um…hiding StarkPads randomly around the apartment so you can grab one whenever an idea should occur to you."

"Oh," I hum after a moment, moving to climb the shelves of the bookcase, hopping up onto one of four rafters that stretched the width of the living room. That was another good thing about Clint's floor – literally _all_ the furniture and even the structure itself was reinforced to bear over 300 pounds of weight, and there were multiple sniper nests and other high places in every room. "I'd always wondered how you did that."

"I'll tell you on my deathbed, and not a moment before," Dad announces resolutely, sliding back from the book and looking up at me. "Are you settled in?"

"I think so," I reply, stretching out along the rafter like a cat. "My weapons are sorted, my clothes are nearly packed, and Darcy's not pissed because I kept weapons caches in her apartment. Not pissed anymore, anyways."

"I'm not going to ask," Dad decides after a moment. "Jarvis knows you're here, of course. I can't think of any other database updates, but I'm sure you could find them should they occur."

"Of course."

He nods and stands, dusting his hands off. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I have a whiny Board member to go deal with and Agent's gonna chop my head off if I'm late."

"No," I deny. "He wouldn't do that."

"Aw, thanks."

"He'd just Taser you," I continue cheerfully, listening to my dad groan under his breath as he heads for the elevator.

"Thanks for that," he calls as the elevator slides shut.

"No problem," I tell the now-empty room, silent save for the low hum of the fridge.

"You know, talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity."

I startle suddenly, almost falling off the rafter as I turn around to face the speaker – Clint. I swear at him for a good ten seconds before finishing with "Well, you _would_ know a lot about insanity."

He just laughs before settling onto the rafter. "So how do you like the place?"

"I helped _design_ the place," I remind him. "But it's really nice. The sniper perches are spectacular. Five stars. Would use again."

"I'm glad," he deadpans. "So, hey, I have a copy of _Mission: Impossible – Rogue Nation_ and some popcorn, are you clear for the afternoon?"

"I can be," I grin. "Perks of being the boss."

"Well then, I'll get the popcorn," he decides, and I nod before we both shimmy our way off the rafter, Clint heading to the kitchen while I set up the movie.

We proceed to spend the next two hours watching good guys fight bad guys and secret agencies square off against one another, all while debating whether or not Willian Brandt looks like Clint (I say he does – spitting image. Clint disagrees, but that could be because William Brandt is _really_ hot and I've said as much.)

Eventually, as the end credits roll, I end up dozing on my boyfriend's shoulder. He just wraps an arm around my waist and presses his cheek into my hair. "Hey."

"Hey yourself," I mumble sleepily into his t-shirt.

"Guess what?" he asks.

" _What,"_ I reply slowly, in a I-am- _tired_ -so-this-had- _better_ -be-worth-it tone.

"Welcome home."

 _Worth it,_ I mentally remark as I fall asleep with a small smile on my face.

Definitely worth it.


	31. Merry Mayhem

" _Die,_ Barton!" I shriek before tossing a projectile over the fort walls.

"Right back at 'cha!" he calls before hurling something my way, and I duck before watching the snowball explode into powder behind me.

Yep, you guessed right: a Christmas snowball fight.

It was a fierce battle between me, Dad, and Steve on one side and Bucky, Natasha, and Clint on the other. We were in the middle of a public park, and for once completely uncaring about what the public thought because _this_ was war, and Clinton F. Barton was going _down._

"Look out!" Dad yelps, tugging me down behind the walls of our tightly-packed snow fort.

"Missed me!" I crow, crouched low while my right hand – I was wearing a specially-tailored one-armed coat to determine how a new arm upgrade dealt with cold – packs a new snowball.

I laugh as it nails my boyfriend in the face and he glares at me over the walls of his fort, probably ruing the day he taught me to aim.

It's six years too late for that, as far as I'm concerned.

The snowball fight progresses well – volley after volley of projectiles being tossed between the two forts, ending in no clear winner after it dissolved into chaos and we weren't sure who was fighting whom anymore.

Bucky and Natasha had decided to ice skate on a frozen lake nearby – Steve and I had decided to sit back and watch Bucky _try_ to ice skate while Nat dominated the lake.

Oh, and provide medical assistance if someone fell through the ice and got hypothermia. That too.

A sigh from my companion makes me look up. "Are you okay?"

"What?" Steve blinks and looks at me. "Yeah – yeah, I'm fine." He turns back to watching the lake, his eyes gaining an unreadable look.

I follow his gaze to a certain Russian super-soldier.

 _Oh._

I breathe out as I turn back to Steve, my breath visible in the mid-December air. "'Fine' is a very subjective word."

The Captain gives a mirthless chuckle. "I guess it is."

I glance between him and my surrogate brother. "Has anything happened between you two since February?" I ask, referring to when Bucky had kissed Steve (on the cheek, but still!) in front of a tarmac full of reporters.

Steve just snorts and shakes his head. "That was a fluke – Bucky's always pulling stunts like that for the press."

"Keep telling yourself that," I deadpan. Yeah, Bucky _was_ known to pull stunts once in a while, but nothing that directly or indirectly affected one of us, and kissing Steve was definitely affecting him.

Steve huffs at me and pulls his knees him, resting his chin on top of them.

"You know that's not illegal anymore, right?" I ask, diverging from the original topic just a bit. "If Bucky wants to kiss you, he can."

"I'm pretty sure he'd do it if it was illegal or not. We'd sneak around like…I don't know, Pyramus and Thisbe, or Romeo and Juliet."

I give him an amused look, and he grins sheepishly. "Shakespeare. I read a lot when I was sick."

"I know it's Shakespeare, dummy, you're not the only one that was a nerdy kid with time on their hands," I roll my eyes. "I just found the analogies funny. But really, you could totally make a move. He's single."

"I doubt that." Steve makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. "He's got da – _ladies_ stuck to him all the time."

I choke back a laugh. "Steve, man, if you haven't realized that your bestie is rooting for the home team yet, then you need your eyes checked. And yeah, take it from a girl, Bucky's a catch. All the more reason for you to hit that before someone else does."

Steve blushes but says nothing, and I shake my head before turning back to watch the two ice skaters again, but not before adding one more thing: "There's mistletoe all over, Rogers. Use it."

We both fall silent again, content to sit and watch our Russian friends play on the ice. I'm struck by the natural grace and poise Natasha exudes – her history as a ballerina didn't show very often, except for the times when she used certain leaps in battle, and then I was too busy to appreciate it.

The tranquility is shattered by an ear-piecing yelp and a sharp tug on my uncovered arm that has me instinctively moving towards the sidearm I had on.

Luckily I look before shooting, because all I found was my boyfriend stuck to my arm…by his _tongue._

The _idiot_ had _licked_ my arm. My freezing cold, _metal_ arm.

" _What_ are you doing?" I sigh exasperatedly, shifting my arm so I wasn't tugging on his tongue at all.

"I' innt my 'ault!" Clint protests, grey eyes blown wide. "'Ee 'ared me 'oo!" he continues, pointing an accusing finger at my father, who was laughing uncontrollably on a bench nearby.

I mutter some colorful words in Italian before sighing and looking over at Steve, who was barely holding in his own laughter. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. But seriously, someone _help me_!"

"Try breathing out," Natasha suggests, coming over to kneel beside her best friend. "Clint, stupid, calm down and breathe deeply in and out. You'll get it off eventually."

Clint rolls his eyes at her but huffs out a cloud of breath anyways.

Nothing happens.

I sigh. "How long will this take?"

"No clue. In…out…in…"

I groan and lean back into Bucky, who was practically a human radiator.

"Just keep breathing, just keep breathing, just keep breathing…"

My day had started out so _well_.

.

It took around an hour to get Clint's tongue fully detached from my arm, and by that time the park had really lost it's appeal for the group as a whole. Dad had Happy pick us up, bring us back to the Tower, and coffee and hot chocolate had been passed around.

I was currently curled up in an overstuffed armchair, balancing a mug of hot chocolate on the armrest as I watched Thor try to explain what a bligesnipe was, mainly because he was giving us each a blanket made from their pelts with Nordic runes that represented our personalities.

Mine had a rune meaning the beginning of something or the actualization of potential. Fitting, I think.

All of them were – Clint had protection from enemies, defense of that which one loves; Natasha, strength of will; Dad had movement, work, or growth;Bucky had strength and stability; Steve had success and solace, and Bruce had support.

It was a touching gift, really, it was, but the lecture on Asgardian beasts that was now approaching half an hour was a bit excessive.

"Hey, Pikachu," I cut him off gently. "That's great and all, but Bucky looks like he's about to burst if he doesn't get to give his gifts."

"My apologies, Friend James," Thor booms, a frown creasing his face. "I was not aware that I was causing you pain."

Bucky – who now looked relieved, but not too enthused about being the center of attention - smiles at him in forgiveness, shooting me a grateful look as soon as Thor turns away. He reaches behind the couch he shared with Steve and pulls out an armful of sloppily-wrapped packages, passing them around to the eight occupants of the room (Betty was visiting her non-sociopathic family, and Jane and Darcy were investigating some Science! in Massachusetts).

The package I'm handed is flexible and feels soft, indicating a type of cloth. I tear it open to find a presumably hand-knit, dark red sweater that was a little too big; the threads were tightly bunched in some places and too loose in others.

It wasn't perfect, no, but Bucky had made it, by hand, and it's the thought that counts, right?

I look up to see the others unwrapping their own knitted gifts – Clint was holding a deep purple scarf with what looked like lighter purple arrow motifs, Dad was unwrapping a pair of red and gold gloves (one was slightly bigger than the other), Natasha was inspecting a black sweater with red black widow hourglasses all over it, Thor had a grey scarf with what I thought were yellow lightning bolts, Bruce was grinning at a bright green ski cap with what were maybe yellow and black radiation signs, and Steve was holding a blue ski cap decorated with what looked like hexagonal versions of his infamous shield (and looking like it was the best present he'd ever been given – I wonder _why_ …)

"Do you like them?" Bucky asks anxiously, breaking the silence. "I mean, if you don't, that's-"

My pillow hits him dead in the face. "Of course we like them, snowflake," I tell as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, tugging on the sweater and rolling the sleeves up to my elbows. "Why wouldn't we?"

Bucky smiles at me, and then at Steve – something's different about _that_ smile – before giving the group in general a big smile, which we all return, before leaning back against the couch he shared with Steve. "Who's next?"

"I guess I will," Dad sighs dramatically, even though we all know that this is no big travesty. He reaches under his armchair and pulls out a sack, setting it down and pulling out several small packages, handing them out to the various people around the room.

I open a small box to find a single pair of car keys and a picture – a picture of the newest Chevy Camaro, a sleek, silver convertible. A quick glance up revealed Bucky holding a set of motorcycle keys, Steve holding a new pack of expensive drawing pencils, Bruce holding a green stress ball, and Thor holding a book titled _Culture for Dummies_.

A sharp intake of breath makes me look up, my eyes zeroing in on Natasha, who was holding what looked like a jewelry box, her eyes widened just slightly – and for her, that was the equivalent of screaming in shock – at what was inside, something only she could see.

"Tasha?" Clint – who was holding a new pair of hearing aids – asks, his tone worried and, when I looked over, his brow pinched a bit. "You okay?"

At his words, she seems to snap out of a trance. "Yeah," she smiles, tucking the box and determinedly not meeting my father's eyes. "I'm going next."

Clint and I share a worried look – something wasn't right there – but leave it alone as Natasha passes out her gifts.

I unwrap a set of pointed, double-edged throwing knives with a holster that was meant to strap over my back opposite my quiver and a shoebox full of photos of the two of us over the years – all the way from when she was Natalie Rushman, eight years ago, to one taken only a week ago.

"Thanks, Nat," I grin at her, noticing that some tension still resided around her eyes, but she smiled back nonetheless. "You're welcome."

As Bucky finished laughing over the bottle of hard Russian vodka he had received – apparently it was an inside joke from 'way back when – and blushing over the 'I Heart Captain America' shirt he gotten (brilliant, Nat, brilliant), Steve took the opportunity to hand out his gifts.

I quickly realize everyone's received sketches – mine was a profile of Clint reading a book, wearing a loose hoodie that I loved because it belied everything he's been through and made him look truly 26, with his head propped on one hand and his hair mussed up.

A quick glance to my right shows that Clint has a picture of me lying on my stomach, feet swinging in the air as I stared intently at something on a StarkPad, a vague reflection bouncing off my glasses.

Both of them would definitely be framed and hung up in the apartment.

I get up to put my sketch on the table, passing behind Bucky as I went. He's holding a black and white upper-body sketch of himself, with long hair and dog tags, and a small smile on his face.

After setting the sketch carefully on the table, I return to my seat to find a book waiting for me. "Aw, you guys gave out gifts without me?" I whine.

"Sorry, love," Clint gives me a small smile. "You were taking too long."

"Impatient," I huff, grabbing the book and flopping into my seat. The book, on closer inspection, is titled _Flying Warbirds_ , by a person named Cory Graff. There's a sticky note attached to the front cover that reads:

 _Taylor-_

 _Thought you might like this to keep up with the most advanced high-flying stunts, the kind that gives everyone else a heart attack. Merry Christmas, science-niece._

 _-Bruce_

"Aw, thanks, Big Guy." I look up and give Bruce a smile. "I'll use these."

"Oh, no," Clint groans, seeing the title of the book. "Bruce, _why_ , I don't want to have heart problems before 30!"

"Drama queen," I mutter, shoving his shoulder. "And you have no room to talk, Mr. I-Jump-Off-Buildings-For-Fun."

"That's different," he argues, but cuts off the rest of that conversation by pulling his gifts out and passing them around.

I tear off the brown paper – _note to self: give Clint wrapping lessons_ – and find a blue t-shirt within that says 'Sarcastic comment loading, please wait…' and a progress bar at 99%.

A quickly survey of the room shows Dad holding a shirt that reads 'Guns don't kill people, Dads with pretty daughters do', Natasha laughing at a 'Girls Do Not Dress for Boys' shirt, Bruce smirking at a green t-shirt that says 'You Won't Like Me When I'm Angry' with a Hulk fist underneath, Bucky holding a shirt with the Howling Commandos insignia on it, Thor looking bemused at his 'Stop! Hammer Time!' shirt, and Steve blushing at his 'I Understood That Reference!' shirt.

"You think you're so witty," I tease him softly, leaning over to his armchair.

"If the shoe fits…" he returns in the same tone.

I snort as I slide back into my chair, looking around the room. "My turn?"

"Your turn," Dad agrees.

I turn to grab the little pile of presents from behind my chair, handing each person the gift that was wrapped with their trademark logo.

Bucky's the first to unwrap his present, holding up a pair of black motorcycle gloves. "You know, im starting to think you coordinate your gifts."

Dad – who had given him a Harley – and I share a look. "I can neither confirm nor deny that," I announce flatly. "And by the way, they're made of the same stuff these are." I hold up my net-shooting gloves, which double as both archery gear and bike gloves. "Nylon. Kevlar. Other protective stuff I can't remember."

"So on the off chance I get shot at while taking a Sunday drive…"

"It's not that uncommon," I remind him, and he nods after a moment.

I'm content to watch Bruce enthuse about his new, break-resistant beakers – until, that is, Natasha starts acting suspiciously shifty.

I narrow my eyes as she gets up from her chair, grabbing the jewelry box she'd gotten from my dad before slipping out of the room.

Nobody notices as I follow her out, trailing her first to the stairwell then down twenty-six stories and into a quiet lab, leaving me confused – but I knew that Natasha didn't do anything without meaning to, so she must have a reason for choosing this destination.

"What are we doing here?" I ask as I step into the lab behind us, looking around as the doors lock themselves shut and the windows seal with a hiss.

If this were anyone else, I'd be extremely worried. As it was, I was mainly perturbed and wondering what had spooked the Black Widow, of all people.

"I knew you'd follow me," she admits, not turning around to face me, instead focused on something in her hands.

"And you engaged the locks in here…why?"

She sighs before turning around and taking a few steps that put her right in front of me, and she thrusts a hand into my face before I can blink. "Look at _this_."

I blink and lean back slightly to focus on the object that she was holding. I was looking at a ruby pendant, shaped like a heart, that was about 2 inches wide and just as tall; it was hung on a shiny gold chain that was admittedly gaudy. It wasn't that bad of a necklace, all things considered.

'All things considered' meaning that it was garish, conspicuous, outlandish, and definitively _not_ Natasha.

I sigh as I take a step back. "Did he really-?"

"Yes."

"And you want me to-?"

" _Fix it_."

I huff out a breath before taking the necklace and sitting down on a workbench, setting the necklace down in front of me. This wasn't my first time 'fixing' my dad's social blunders – not that I was much better at interacting with people, no, but I could get a college degree in placating business-people and friends alike.

"At least he tried," I offer Natasha without looking up. "It's not like he knew what a traditional girl would want for Christmas, let alone one like you."

"That's because he hasn't given presents to girls, excluding you, as far as I know."

"He hasn't," I reply after a moment of memory scanning – the last present he'd given to a woman that didn't call him 'Dad' or some variation of that was probably Christmas of 1999, or maybe '98.

Before _me_ – before everything went south with my mother.

"Why me?"

I shrug. "I can't tell you that."

She sighs and sinks onto a stool. "That man is confusing."

"At best."

She shakes her head and stares at the ruby heart, the necklace already detached. "What does it mean?" she asks softly, almost as if the thought had unwittingly escaped via her mouth.

"I don't know," I respond bluntly before focusing all my attention on the necklace.

I hear her leave the lab, disengaging the locks and seals as she went, leaving me alone with just my thoughts, a knitted sweater, and a necklace in the early stages of disassembly.

This hasn't been a normal Christmas; far from it.

But when was it ever?

.

 **So…I'm aware that it's July, and this is a Christmas one-shot. But unless you all wanted to wait until December rolls around…**

 **I've got something exciting set up next. Stay tuned!**


	32. Adrenaline

**I'm baaack! And yes, I realize that this is hideously OOC. But anyone reading this should really know we left 'in character' behind 2 years, 2 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days ago.**

 **Also, I wrote half of this at 2 am. Sorry, and enjoy.**

* * *

There's only one thing in this world that can make me excited.

Well. Okay. Two, but I'm not talking about sex right now.

And I'm not talking about normal excitement right now, or even adrenaline; I'm talking about the kind of rush you occasionally get where you can feel your heart beating against your ribs, feel the blood rushing through your veins and roaring through your head. Where you are on top of the world in that moment, and nothing – _absolutely nothing_ – can ever, _ever_ bring you down.

One of the things that can bring me to that level was Clint – more specifically, sex with Clint.

The other thing was something else _entirely_. It was something that I had never told a soul about; one of the few secrets that I kept close to the vest. Clint didn't know. Jarvis didn't know. Dad didn't know, and wasn't that something?

If any of them knew anything, it was only that occasionally, I snuck out of the Tower in the dead of night. I didn't say where I was going. When asked, I blamed insomnia.

This…wasn't insomnia. It was _so_ much more fun than that.

I smirk to myself as I pull the non-descript pickup truck I'd taken out of the garage into a wide alleyway and throw it into park, leaning over to rummage in the glove compartment, coming up with a piece of paper.

It's only got three lines of text:

 _August 22_ _nd_ _. Steinway St._

 _Bring your best._

 _Don't be late._

I smirk at it before tossing it in the back, climbing over the front seat to grab the small backpack I had stashed on the backseat and change from my t-shirt and jeans into something a little more suited for what I was doing: a one-piece black jumpsuit, black racing gloves, and tough but flexible black boots.

Climbing out of the car, I either looked like I was about to rob someone blind or like I'd just stepped out of an – _ahem_ – adult movie.

Neither applied, thank Thor.

I make my way around to the back of the truck, unlocking the tailgate and climbing into the bed. I unhook a few bungee cords and pull off the tarp covering a thin, low shape in the center of the bed of the truck.

The tarp falls away to reveal a sleek and shiny black motorcycle with accents of purple; not too much, as discretion was the name of this game, but enough that I didn't look like a complete shadow.

My heart rate spikes just _looking_ at it. I'll admit that I had a thing for fast bikes. The first one I ever built when I was eighteen was black and reactor-blue, with a top speed of 200 miles an hour, which was about mid-range when it came to fast.

But _this_ beauty? It could hit 280, easy. 290 or 300, if I really pushed it. It was custom-built, of course, on the chassis of a Suzuki Hayabusa, with a modified Dodge Tomahawk engine and the body of a Yamaha YZF R1, everything bolted together with odds and ends I'd found either online or in the workshop.

I grin as I wheel it out of the truck, leaning it against the wall as I grab my helmet from the cab and lock everything up, stashing the keys in a hidden pocket.

I grab my bike and leave the alleyway, eyes scanning the street until they fall on two other people, both with their own supped-up bikes.

They both look up as I approach with my helmet tucked under one arm and the other guiding my bike.

"You Stark?" Guy #1 – his bike was a yellow Kawasaki Ninja – asks in a rough voice.

I give a sharp nod. "You Shaw?"

He nods, and then motions to the man next to him, standing by a red and black BMW K1200. "This is Johnson."

I give a half-wave, really only a flick of my fingers. Of course I knew who these guys were – I had dug up everything on them before I even stepped foot out of the Tower. Kawasaki Guy was Ethan Shaw, a blue-collar mechanic out of the Bronx. BMW Guy was Paul Johnson, an ex-MotoGP racer-turned mailman from Brooklyn.

"We need to get this shit done before the cops show," Johnson mutters, nervously glancing up and down the street.

"Well?" I step back and gesture with a hand. "Ladies first."

I ignore the two rude gestures that gets me as I wheel my bike into the street and up to the line. I was in the middle position: I had an ex-pro racer on my left, and a guy that knew how to make bikes go fast on my right.

Really, my only true advantage was that I did stupid stuff every day and was fairly fearless because of it. Compared to mutant flesh-eating mutant hamsters and psychotic aliens, this was a piece of cake.

I sling a leg over the bike and settle in, grabbing my helmet and shoving it onto my head. It was probably the simplest part of my outfit: a semi-glossy black fiberglass with a slight ridge in the center going back and a dark tinted visor that, when I put it down, made my face impossible to see.

Which was good, as – like I said – this was illegal.

I slap my visor down and crick my neck and my knuckles as I press the start button for my bike, grinning as it rumbles to life below me.

I watch the stop light above us – still red – as I carefully shift my weight from one foot to the other, the movement making the bike tilt just slightly. I lift my weight to the balls of my feet as the other two bikes roar beside me.

The light turns yellow. I take a few deep breaths, centering myself entirely on the task before me and idly wondering if Bruce would be surprised to know his meditation techniques helped my street racing career.

To my right and left, I hear asphalt crunch as the bikes and riders shift.

I keep my eyes on the light as I get into position – leaning forward over the bike, jockey-style, and lifting one foot entirely off the ground and pressing it close to the bike.

The light turns green.

I shoot forward, going from 0 to 250 in under three seconds and only climbing from there. To my left, Johnson's BMW matches me nicely. Shaw's Kawasaki lags just a bit, but that didn't fool me – the tortoise won the race, after all.

(Not _this_ race, but yeah.)

I hit the first turn fast and lean hard to the left, coming close enough to the street that I could reach out and brush a hand against the asphalt if I so wished.

Another turn, and Johnson overtakes me, going up and to the outside to simply slip past mid-turn. He passes with a high-pitched whine, and I curse loudly and violently.

I sling around another curve, and now Shaw's gaining – _this is not good_ \- and I push my bike a little harder, hitting 275.

Shaw's front wheel pokes ahead of mine, and I take a chance to glance ahead.

There was a straightaway coming up. _This is good._

I swing around one more turn, leaning towards the inside of the track and squeezing my knees in so they didn't hit the ground, as that would be…really bad, to say the least.

The bike straightens up, and I begin to open up the throttle – slowly, at first, but steadily. It hits 280. 285. 290.

Just as the speedometer peaks over 295, there's a flash of color in my peripheral vision. It was Shaw, and he was up to something.

I pace myself so that we were nose and nose, glancing over to see my opponent poised and taught, like a panther ready to pounce.

Suddenly, my bike jerks to the right, wobbling dangerously before I steady it. Swerving away from Shaw as we take another curve, I come to a realization: I was being pushed off the track.

Well, that wasn't going to fly, now was it? Two could play at that game.

I straighten the bike up again and shift my weight onto the balls of my feet, carefully edging closer and closer to the BMW.

I knew, right off the bat, that I couldn't beat him in a shoving match. My bike was made to be feather-light and thin, optimized for speed and only speed.

For a split second, I hesitate about the next option.

But then I remember that I was no superhero – not here, in a back alley in some dingy part of Queens, doing _very_ illegal things that would get me _very_ arrested for a _very_ long time, regardless of my last name.

So, I press in close to Shaw and reach over to very carefully shove him off his bike. Hard.

I gun it as he goes flying into the gutter, his bike spinning and spinning and tearing into little pieces.

I just take a deep breath and disappear around the next curve.

Two more curves go by, and then I can see two things: Johnson, about three yards ahead of me, and the finish line, about a hundred yards ahead of _him._

I take a deep breath and squeeze the throttle as hard as I possibly could, glancing down to watch the speedometer slowly climb to 300.

My bike _screams_ as I push it closer and closer to Johnson, eating up the lead that the pro-racer held at an astonishing rate.

With 300 yards to go, I'm none to nose with Johnson, who I can tell is pushing his bike too far. Pro races only reached upwards of 220 miles an hour - and that was on manicured, smooth racing track. Johnson's Kawasaki Ninja only had a top speed of 176; it was obviously customized, but that was quite a stretch.

Johnson seems to know this too, as he begins to try some of the same tactics Shaw had, but I smoothly make my way around him and to the inside of the track, passing him by without incident.

100 yards to go. I risk a glance down at my speedometer: it was holding steady around 300. I knew that keeping the bike a top speed for an extended amount of time lead to greater risk of something failing, but it was a risk I had to take.

50 yards. The world becomes a giant blur as I focus on the finish line and only the finish line.

10 yards. I breathe, I blink, and I win.

And it's all over.

I throw my hands up in silent celebration as the bike eases back to safe speeds, driving it in smooth circles the diameter of the street until my heart's stopped beating quite as hard.

"Fancy seeing you here," a silky voice says from behind me.

For a moment, I freeze, remembering that I was completely unarmed, before slowly turning around to watch the Black Widow solidify out of the shadow of a nearby building.

She fixes me with an unreadable look as she twirls a knife between her fingers, then fixes her glare on Johnson and Shaw, who looked like he'd gone through a meat processor.

"Run along now, boys," she purrs dangerously, and run along they do: Johnson hops back on his bike and speeds off while Shaw drops the bike altogether and flat-out runs, which was impressive.

I watch them go and take off my helmet with a small sigh. "They owed me money."

"You shouldn't be out here in the first place," Natasha points out as she approaches.

"What are you gonna do, ground me?" I scoff and then wince as I turn off my bike and it lets out a rattly cough. I knew pushing it would end badly. "I'm fine."

"Are you?" she asks with a significant look.

I glance down at myself. My heart was still beating a little too fast, my lungs heaving as the adrenaline rush ebbed away. I knew my face was flushed and my eyes bright, my hair sweat-slicked and pressed to my forehead.

"I'm better than fine," I admit as I dismount and walk around the bike, carefully checking for any loose or broken parts.

I was not expecting the blow that landed on the back of my head.

"Ow!" I rub the sore spot and scowl up at Natasha. "What the hell was that for?!"

"You're an idiot, that's what you are," she growls. "You're a grown woman, Stark. You should know better than to sneak out in the dead of night, without even telling the AI, completely unarmed."

"I don't have my permits and I wasn't going to add possession to my charges," I point out. "And I can take care of myself. You said it yourself - I'm a grown woman."

"You're acting like a teenager," she sighs. "I'm sure you know how illegal this is."

"Fully aware," I nod, finishing my bike checks and standing up, glancing up and down the street. "And speaking of illegal, we should probably go before the cops show up."

I gesture for her to follow as I lead the way back to the truck, the two of us easily managing to get the bike into the truck and secured. I hop in and start the truck, pulling away just as sirens begin wailing in the distance.

"So," Natasha starts after I park a few blocks away. "Street racing."

"Yes."

" _Illegal_ street racing."

"Yes."

"Why?" she asks.

I shrug. "Why not? I like it."

"Stop acting so brash about this!" she hisses. "Do you know what you could lose here? If you get arrested, you could lose your position at SI. You would _definitely_ lose your position on the Avengers. You'd become just another low-life criminal, lost in the system. Do you _want_ that?"

"Of course I don't!" I snap, bristling. "Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot, Natasha, because I'm not. I am fully aware of the consequences, but I've also made sure that I _can't get caught._ My phone is off and can't be hacked even if it was. I've made sure no one knows where I am, and the only people here are low-lives whose words would never hold up against a Fortune 100 Company Vice President."

I cross my arms and glare at my passenger. "So no, I don't want to get caught. But I won't, because I'm better than that."

"You can always screw up," she whispers. "No matter how good you _think_ you are, you can always mess up and pay the consequences for it."

I glance over to see fear lurking behind her eyes, and I get the feeling she isn't talking about here and now.

"This isn't going to get me shot, Nat," I sigh. "It isn't a matter of life and death – only of losing a few hundred bucks, at most," I amend with a wry grin. "And I like it. I really do."

"If it's bike racing you like, then why don't you just get onto the MotoGP tracks or something? Tony would jump at the chance to own a team."

"Because I really damn busy as it is," I deadpan. "I have four jobs, Natasha. _Four._ I'm the Vice President and second-in-command to Stark Industries. I'm also the Chief Information Officer. Then I've got the Avengers, of course, but also press relations for the team on a part-time basis. Add my social life on to that…" I shrug. "I can't be a full-time racer. I just don't have the time or the energy."

"Fair enough," she nods. "So you're saying that there's no way for you to do this through the correct channels, and yet you still won't quit."

"You know what they say about drugs," I reply with a wry smirk. "You can't have just one."

"I'm…pretty sure that's Pringles," Natasha retorts slowly. "Yeah, that's Pringles."

"Whatever!" I throw an arm up, thumping the roof of the truck. "Same concept, Nat. It's like…it's like…" I trail off, racking my brain for another Avengers and their dangerous pastimes. "My Dad and alcohol."

"He's cut down recently," my companion points out. "And with a tolerance like that, he's not going to kill himself unless he drinks a _lot_. With this?" Natasha gestures towards the dark city streets. "One second of failure, and it could all be over like _that_." She emphasizes her point with a snap of her fingers.

I give a bitter, humorless laugh. "You think my whole life isn't like that, Natasha? Do you think that one slip-up in the lab, one wrong word in front of the Board, I don't have the potential to lose everything? Do you think that when I make the _conscious_ decision to take a bullet or a blade or a genetically-modified, supernatural wasp sting for one of you guys, that I don't _know_ that my life can be stopped on a dime?"

"The only difference," I continue, fingering the lapel of my jumpsuit, "is that out here, it doesn't _matter_ as much. Out here, I'm not Taylor Stark, Vice President and icon and superhero and…" I shake my head. "I'm just Taylor – if that – the girl with the crazy fast bike that isn't afraid to play dirty sometimes."

Natasha is silent for a long, long time, and I'm just about to give up on talking and start the car when she says, "You're wrong."

I blink in shock. "What?"

"You're wrong," she repeats. "Not about your life, not about the responsibilities you carry, and not about you playing dirty – _rebenok_ , I've seen you cheat at poker too many times to believe that you _never_ play dirty. But you're wrong about it not mattering."

I just tilt my head in confusion, not understanding what she was saying.

"For a genius, you sure can be thick," she huffs, leaning forward to look me directly in the eyes, emerald meeting sapphire. "Let me pose you a situation. What if, just as you were coming across the finish line, the guy on the yellow bike decided to lunge at you, throwing you off your bike. What if you went flying at the ridiculously high speeds you were going, and you hit the pavement, and you never got back up?"

"Nat, I appreciate the imagery, but what…"

"Let me finish," she interrupts sternly. "What do you think Clint's face would look like the next morning, when he finds you not in bed beside him? What do you think Tony's face would look like when he realizes you aren't in the Tower at all? What do you think Jarvis' voice would sound like when he registers your heat signature halfway across the city, but it's fading fast, _too fast_ , because you're bleeding out? What do you think Bucky will think when he sees the blood, and what is Steve going to say when he sees the twisted heap of metal that he and you had once bonded over?"

She pauses and then, in a rare (or maybe not-so-rare) moment of emotional vulnerability, she asks, "What would I do if you were dead because of something entirely preventable?"

I try to protest, I really do. I try to reassure her that no, that won't happen.

But I can't seem to speak around the lump in my throat.

(Distantly, I realize that she's guilt-tripping me. Also distantly, I realize that sincerely guilt-tripping people out of doing things is a very mom-like thing to do, and with her maybe-maybe-not dating my dad… _file under: further research._ )

"You know," I croak once I can speak again, "for a person that isn't supposed to be good at emotions, you sure do give one hell of speech."

"It's all your fault," she grumbles, but she doesn't actually look too beat up about it.

"I'm sorry," I sigh. "I know it's stupid, and childish, and reckless, and all the other things my dad would ream me out for. But I don't want to stop."

"You don't have to," she says softly. "You're a grown woman. It's not like I can ground you – and the last time Tony tried, it didn't exactly go well for anyone." I snort at the understatement. "But can you promise me a few things?"

I raise an eyebrow, the prospect of a deal sending me into Shark Tank mode. "Hm?"

"One: tell _me_ where you're going. Not even Jarvis has to know. Just me."

I nod, already devising way to bypass Jarvis' systems to only relay message to Natasha's phone and not have them be traced back to-

"Taylor."

I blink at the hand being waved in front of my eyes. "Sorry. Go on."

"Two," Natasha continues. "You let Tony look at your helmet. You can tell him whatever you want. Just let him go to town on padding."

I nod again, but this time I grimace at little because I wasn't sure that Natasha quite understood what lengths Dad could go to where my safety was concerned.

"Three: you let me look at your jumpsuit. I may not be a designer, but I've been in this business for a long time and this?" Natasha tugs at the thin fabric covering my arms. "Is not safe."

"It was the most I could slip under the radar," I mutter. "No judging."

Natasha just laughs, then she nudges my leg. "Move over or be sit on. I'm driving. No arguments."

I grumble half-heartedly but shuffle over anyways, tipping my head back and closing my eyes as the truck rumbles to life.

The adrenaline was fading, as adrenaline did, and all I wanted now was to go home.


End file.
